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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



QUIVER OF ARROWS 



BY 

Louise A. Weitzel 



LIE5KARY of CONGHESS 
fwo Copies rteceivi^- 

APR 10 1908 

■jiivtnitin tniry 
00 PY b. 






COPYRIGHTED 190H 



THE EXPRESS PRINTING CO. 
LITITZ, PA. 



DEDICATED 

TO 

E. L, H. 

WHOSK UNTIRING AND I,OYAI, KINDNESS AND SYMPATHY 

IN TIMKS OF GREAT TRIAI. WERE AN UNFAILING 

SOURCE OF COMFORT AND CHEER 



I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I know not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flio^ht. 

I breathed a song- into the air. 
It fell to earth, I know not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found that arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

—Heniry Wadsworth Longfellow 



Index 



Answer, The 218 

Arbor Day, The Lesson of... 63 
Army of Breadwinners, The. . 86 

Asters, Late Purple 196 

At Eventide, It Shall be Light 243 

Babouscka 181 

Bells of Linden Hall, The .... 71 

Bereaved 238 

Beyond the Alps Lies Italv. . . 126 

Birth of Christ, The '. . . . 85 

Brook, The 198 

Butterfly, The 110 

Chain, The 72 

Change, A 166 

Changed 224 

Chapel Bells, The 165 

Chestnutting 105 

Christmas Story, The 119 

Christmas, After 205 

Clock, Old The 37 

Cloister at Ephrata, The Old. 13 
Come, Lord Jesus, Be Our 

Guest 44 

Coming of the King, The 116 

Commonplace People 36 

Conflict, In the 229 

Cost, The 104 

Cross, The Shadow of The. . . 54 

Crown of the Year, The 201 

Curse of the Ages, The 106 

Czar, The 82 

Dame Nature's Feast 108 

Dead, The Sainted 200 

Death the Swiftest Rider 23 

Deserted 130 

Deserted Nest, The 156 

Destiny 219 

Dragon, The Modern 79 

Dirge, A 75 

Drinking Song, A 21 

Dog, To a 229 

Dyer, Mary 230 

Elaine,The Witch's Daughter. 206 

Elegy, An 29 

Elijah's Triumph 239 

Evening Clouds 218 

Faith 107 

Firelight In the 152 

Flood at Williamsport, An In- 
cident of the 235 

F^uneral of the Year, The. . . . 124 



Gettysburg 173 

Giving Enriches 15 

Good Friday 163 

Hand of God, The 2^1 

Handwriting on the Wall, The 32 

Haunts of the Muse, The 209 

Heritage, Our 16 

Hero, Fallen The 10 

Heroes, The 242 

Home, Sweet Home 178 

Human Nature Never Satisfied 143 

Isles of the Blest, The 121 

Judge Not 88 

Judgment, The 100 

Juggernaut of Progress, The. 133 

June Song, A 204 

Justice Ill 

Katydid, The 42 

Kept 114 

King's Palace, The 34 

King Philip 157 

Land of Romance 203 

Last Christian Martyr, The.. . 169 
Legend of the Two White 

Chargers 187 

Lesson of Autumn, The 135 

Like Little Children 95 

Limitations of Nature, The.. 146 

Limited 53 

Lititz, A Retrospect and a Pro- 
phecy 193 

Lititz Springs, The 56 

Little Cloud, A 58 

Longing for Freedom 162 

Master's Feet. The 129 

Memories 90 

Memory, A 45 

Memory of Childhood, A.... 186 

Missionarv Graves 69 

Mother, I'Want My 219 

Mother's Precepts, A 154 

Mv Birthdav 171 

M'v Dream.' 180 

M\ Garden 175 

My Wealth 160 

Muse, The 210 

Nativitv, The 139 

Nature's Call 216 

Nemesis 39 

New Muse, The 46 

None of These, 181 



Not in Vain 225 

October 20 

Old Age 61 

Old Clock on the Stair, The. . . 97 

Old Fashioned 98 

Old Friends, The 136 

Old Letters 217 

Parable, A 220 

Parted 174 

Partridge, The 92 

Passing of the Year, The 102 

Phantom Deer, The 137 

Plea for the Traveler, A 184 

Picture, A 51 

Poet, The 177 

Poet's Theme, The 77 

Presentementand A Prayer, A 155 

Presumption Reproved 132 

Prophecy, The 48 

Regret 203 

Rejoice 214 

Reminder, The 74 

Resignation 153 

Retribution 67 

River of Time, The 70 

Road, The Long 226 

Rose, A.... 168 

Rose of Jericho, The 161 

Roses, My 232 

Shadows 100 

Ships, My 31 

Sirens, The 183 

Sold 240 

Song of Labor, The 127 

Song of Spring, A 114 

Soul, The 64 

Soul, Why Mournest Thou 

Thv Youth 213 

Sparrows, The 59 

Spring Flowers, Lesson of the 9 

Spring Melodies 140 

Star, My 24 



Stein, Matthew 227 

Superstition 30 

Suspicion 215 

Tea Kettle, Song of The 11 

Temple of the Sun, The 123 

Thanksgiving 66 

Then? 43 

The Servant is Not Greater 

Than His Lord 81 

Thunder Storm at Night, A. . 18 

To C. K. B 212 

Tones of the Soul 232 

Too Late 96 

Too Low 211 

Traveling 41 

Unprepared 192 

Veiled Statue at Sais 221 

Village Graveyard, The 142 

Vision, A 197 

Voice in the Night, A 118 

Voices of the Springtide, The 83 

Waiting 233 

Walk, A 117 

Wandering Jew, The 166 

Warning, A 18 

Warning The 180 

W^eather, A Question of 193 

What the Flowers Said 35 

What is It? 122 

What Was Heard in the Woods 28 

White Man's Burden, The... tl3 

White Slaves of To-Day 176 

Why the Woman's Christian 
Temperance Union Stands 

for the Home 148 

Window, At the 94 

Woods in Winter, The 158 

World Problem, The 49 

Would You? 234 

Yellow Bird, The 62 

Young Man, The Rich 26 



FOREWORD 

In order to disarm the critics, if such a thing is pos- 
sible, I wish to say that I am only too well aware that 
these poems bear the marks of crudity, immaturity and 
haste. They were mostly composed under disadvantages 
of various kinds. I have never been in a position to de- 
vote myself unreservedly to the muse. Some of the poems 
have appeared in various publications, the names and dates 
being given below. Some were written in my teens and 
might have been left to rest in oblivion without loss to the 
public but there were certain associations connected with 
them which endeared them to me and I could not resist 
the temptation to insert them with the rest. I pleased 
myself and if others are not pleased I Avill not fret. The 
arrangement also is not of the best and if I were to pre- 
pare the poems a second time for the press I would group 
them according to the subjects. It is a marvel to me and 
my friends that I ever got the book ready for publication 
in my present circumstances. The pleasure however 
atoned for the sacrifices. 

LOUISE A. WEITZEL. 



THE LESSON OF THE SPRING FLOWERS 

Once on a time, oppressed with care, 
Too g-reat for my weak self to bear, 
Absorbed in thought, scarce knowing why, 
I wandered to a wood hard by. 

Ah, there I found the peace I'd sought 
In crowded mart and found it not. 
And there I breathed a holy calm 
Sweet as the air of David's Psalm. 

Fair Spring was present in the land. 
As I could see on every hand, 
And where her dainty feet had trod 
She left her impress on the sod. 

Beside a winding rivulet 
I found the star-eyed wind-flower set. 
Near by, beneath a greening tree, 
The fragile rue anemone. 

And there stood Jack, the preacher kind. 
Preaching a sermon to his mind. 
"What do you think?" he said to me, 
" Look, all around God's goodness see. 

" See how He clothes each little flower 
Meet for the day and for the hour, 
Each takes its part in Nature's plan, 
As thou too must, oh doubting- man ! 

'' We grew beneath the darksome mold. 
We flourished 'mid the snow and cold. 
Warmed by the sun, fed by the rain. 
And thinkest thou we live in vain? 



" The God who placed the flowerets here 
Has planned your life, to Him more dear 
Than fairest plant within the grove, 
And all is well, for God is love ! " 

— The Moravian, April, J 903 



THE FALLEN HERO 

The smoke of battle has not cleared 
Ere slinks away the form revered 

Obscured amid the gloom, 

Alas ! is this his doom ? 

Has fame no other fate for those 
Whom chance of finer metal shows 
Than is the vulgar crowd 
Which greets with plaudits loud ? 

Ah, who can tell? What hath he done? 
Can he not keep the laurels won 

By lofty valor tried 

But late in war's red tide ? 

He shamed the old heroic mold. 
Could not resist the glint of gold, 
Upon that giddy height 
Could not maintain his flight. 

None but the eagle's eye can bear 
The piercing sunlight's steady glare 

The weaker eye must shrink, 

In sheltering darkness sink. 

Our hero could not bear the gaze 
Of all the world, nor face the blaze 

Of sudden glory born. 

He was of night, not morn. 

The light discloses flaws that we 
In lesser mankind fail to see, 

The marble shows the stain 

Because of finer grain. 



ID 



But we demand a marble pure, 
All clean, unspotted, to endure 

The wear of time and tide. 

The fall of human pride. 

He is no hero whom we crowned. 
Then let the laurel be unbound. 

Farewell, so let him go. 

The world says : "Better so." 

To our true level, soon or late, 
Life brings us, if content to wait, 

And fortune, kind or rough, 

Reveals the real stuff. 

Better to take the lower seat 

Than, pushed aside for one more meet, 

A cruel fate lament. 

And pine in discontent. 

—Lititz Express, Dec, 1900 



THE SONG OF THE TEA KETTLE 

In this world of sounds confusing 
Anything is got by choosing, 
Music that is ear-destroying 
Or aesthetic senses cloying 
With a ravishment enchanting, 
Yet none ever tried supplanting 
Half the homely sweetness ringing 
In the song the kettle's singing 
When the board is spread for tea. 

Sweeter never sang soprano 
To the violin or piano. 
Tenor, basso nor contralto 
From Berlin to Palo Alto; 
Ne'er was any chorus sweeter 
Heard in church or park or theatre ; 
And the bands of all creation 
Cannot win my heart's oblation 
When the kettle sings for tea. 

[II] 



Though my soul is set ou fire 
When I hear the wild birds' choir 
In the green depths of the forest, 
And my heart can find no more rest 
Till the sweet strains all are ended, 
And the birds their flight have Avended 
To the land of ceaseless blooming 
I turn homeward in the gloaming 
Where the kettle sings for me. 

In the world we often wander 
Far and wide and vainly ponder 
Why the happiness we're chasing 
We can ne'er succeed in placing, 
While the hearth fire left behind us 
Doth in nightly dreams remind us 
Of the mystic circle broken, 
Where the tender words were spoken 
While the kettle sang for tea. 

Ah, methinks I see the table 
With its cups antique but stable, 
Sponge-Uke bread and butter yellow. 
And the honey, fragrant, mellow, 
But the cake my power surpasses, 
For the mist is on my glasses, 
While the snow-white cloth is specklesg, 
And my appetite grows reckless. 
As the kettle sings for tea. 

That old kettle's song is cheery. 
But the heart feels often dreary 
That recalls its tone contented, 
For its memories are scented 
With the love we may have flouted 
When the home-land's voice we scouted. 
How once more we'd love to gather. 
Sheltered from the stormy weather, 
Where the kettle sings for tea! 

—Lancaster Intelligence^^ March, 1903 

[12] 



THE OLD CLOISTER AT EPHRATA, PA. 

Twas October, dreamy, tender, all the land was bathed in 

S])lendor, 
And our hearts did melt within us as w^e loitered by the 

way. 
O'er the old stone bridg^e we wandered and half audibly we 

pondered 
How a million feet had passed it ere we saw the light of 

day. 

Soon we reached a stile and over climbing landed in green 

clover 
Carpeting the field surrounding buildings men come far 

to see. 
Here they lived, the old and sainted Brethren history has 

painted, 
In their simple lives and labors, in their rare old piety. 

As they reared the quaint, high gables naught cared they 

for lettered fables 
But the glory of the Highest whom their daily walk 

adored. 
Hence these temfJes more enduring, to the pious more 

alluring, 
Built they than Old World cathedrals in their splendor 

can afford. 

As we passed through narrow doorways, as we trod the 

firm, hard floorways. 
Paced the narrow halls and entries and each bare and cell- 
like room 
Oft we seemed to see the stately Sisters passing, prim, 

sedately, 
Kneeling in the chapel, working at the distaff or the 

loom. 

And we wondered if they hovered, by kind Providence em- 
powered, 

In those dim and low ceiled chambers, once so dear to 
them of yore, 

[13] 



Curious, too, to see the zealous — and, perhaps a little 

jealous 

Of their desecrating fingers — linger o'er their work to 

pore. 

Did they revel in the beauty of kind Nature or did duty 

Chain them to their tasks more closely than we heirs of 
later date ? 

Artist souls felt no repression, see we by their own con- 
fession, 

In the charts and books they left us, spared as yet by 
time and fate. 

All around is changed and changing, as each wanderer sees 
found ranging 

'Round the weather-beaten structures, which alone un- 
changed remain, 

And those pictured forms uncanny of the Sisters few, if 
any, 

Scenes familiar would discover, if to life returned again. 

One thing only changes never; for the human heart for- 
ever 

Find we in all times and places beating to the same old 
tune ; 

And the same old joys and sorrows, yesterdays and same 
tomorrows 

Share we with those ancient Brethren, like the changes 
of the moon. 

Virtue too, is found not only grown in sheltered cloisters 

lonely, 
But it blooms wherever shineth God's free sunshine o'er 

the land. 
Yea, we find it in all ages, in this old world's passing 

stages. 
Cloistered halls may fall and crumble, but His kingdom 

still shall stand. 

— The Lancaster New Era, Nov., 1901 

[14] 



GIVING ENRICHES 

It was Solomon, the Wise, — 
Thus tradition testifies, — 

Who received from Sheba's queen, 
That from distant Afric came. 
Led by rumor of his fame, 

Richest vase of emerald sheen. 

This rare vessel then he filled 
With a liquor he distilled 

That a wondrous virtue had 
To extend by many a span 
The uncertain life of man. 

Years untold one drop could add. 

Rumors wide the tidings bore. 
Once a criminal dared implore 

One drop of the liquid rare. 
But the king refused the gift. 
Malefactors had small shrift. 

With the bad he could not share. 

When a good man made request 
He too would remain unblest. 

No appeals the king would heed, 
For he feared for one drop's sake 
The cover of the vase to break. 

That, he deemed, were waste indeed. 

When at last the king grew ill 
Turned he with a right good will 

To his servants and he said : 
" Open quick the precious lid." 
They made haste as they were bid. 

But the spirit thence had fled ! 

Thus the treasures that we store 
Lose their virtues more and more, 
Till they fail us in the end. 

f 15] 



For the plant in giving- grows, 
And the stream in giving flows. 
We grow rich by what we lend. 

— The Moravian, Nov. , 1901 



OUR HERITAGE 

WRITTEN FOR ALUMNAE DAY AT LINDEN HALL SEMIMARY, JUNE 17, 1902 

Long years ago, Ave read, was born a child 

Amid Moravia's everlasting hills. 
The grandeur of primeval forests wild 

Into his veins its strong free life distils. 

To fit him for the place that Heaven wills. 
Philosopher and sage, prophet and priest, 

And humble, child-like soul ! Not yet fulfills 
Our age the aspirations that but ceased 
To thrill his gentle soul when welcome death released. 

A pilgrim and a stranger guest, at home 

In every land but that his own decreed. 
His weary feet were aye compelled to roam. 

But neither exile, pain nor direst need 

Nor loss nor disappointed hopes could breed 
Despair, that lofty spirit tame nor blot 

The visions that his steadfast faith did feed 
Of that fair time when war should be forgot 
And liberty should be the universal lot. 

As, once, on breezy hillsides he had dreamed 

Of mother-love to him so soon denied, 
Philanthropist and patriot, he schemed 

How through sweet mother-love should be supplied 

The manhood true that makes a nation's pride. 
How womanhood should be no more debarred 

From wisdom's stream her brother-man beside, 
Nor ever lack the power wherewith to guard 
Her nestlings from the conflict that their fathers scarred. 

[ if^ ] 



Two centuries have run their course and more 
Since wise Komensky filled a grave obscure. 

Defamed in life, his work forevermore 
Shall in the memory of mankind endure 
While blest by millions dead whose path was sure 

Through life, their destiny more grand through him, 
Yet unborn generations shall secure 

A fame whose lustre time can never din 

On earth while heaven's eternal choirs his praises hymn, 

He reared the fabric of that wider life 
That chance and age and time itself defies. 

He furnished weapons for the world-old strife 
Begun when closed the gates of Paradise 
Between the woman and her deadly-wise 

But prostrate foe, unlocked the long barred gate 
Unfolding vistas that the straining eyes 

Of ages past had longed to penetrate. 

To be explored by children of a happier fate. 

He smoothed the pathway for the tiny feet 

While thorns and briars his path through life beset. 
And here in our new world it is most meet 

That we remember this our mighty debt, 

Nor we ; his children in the faith, forget 
What once for us in tears and blood he wrought, 

The privilege throughout all time to get 
The products of the ages' garnered thought, 
To learn, to be, to act, as once Comenius taught. 

We thank thee, prophet of the larger mold, 

Whom some of thine own age so little made. 
We thank thee with a gratitude untold 

Here in our Alma Mater's ivied shade. 

As hands are pressed and welcome words are said. 
We bless the heritage that gave us thee 

And the long line of noble souls whose aid 
Has made us better than we e'er could be 
Without, more fit to reign in yonder vast Eternity. 

-Linden Hall Echo, Oct., 1902 
[I7l 



A THUNDER STORM AT NIGHT 

Patter, patter, on the roofs, 
Like the prancing" of the hoofs 
Of an army's thousand chargers that are coming- in their 
might. 
As I He but half awake 
With a drowsy fear I shake 
Lest the mimic troops o'erwhehn me in the darkness of 
the night. 

Now the Hghtning's vivid flash 

And the thunder's roll and crash 
Tell me that the battle's raging and the conflict's fierce and 
long. 

I lie still within my bed, 

Draw the cover o'er my head. 
I am safe within my castle and the castle walls are strong. 

Morn at length breaks fair and calm, 
Air as sweet as Gilead's balm, 
For the tem'pest wild has conquered Nature fierce and left 
her mild. 
Thus the battles of the night 
And its terror and affright 
Master all our wilder nature, leave us g-entle as a child. 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, June, 1902 



A WARNING 

(suggested by the last election) 

Beware, O nation rich and great, 

Lest thou be drunk with glory ! 
Remember that the Ship of State 

Has sailed through oceans gory. 
It has not reached the port of peace, 

The darksome clouds will lower. 
And, lest the tempests still increase, 

Look to a higher Power ! 



[ i8] 



If Christ, the Captain, does not steer 

Thy boasting- is not lawful. 
If once thou push Him to the rear 

Thy doom is swift and awful. 
Full many a nation fell before 

Whose name was quite as g-lorious. 
And many a race is known no more 

Once mighty and victorious. 

The kingly eagle sweeps the sky 

Till pierced by foeman's arrow. 
What matter though he soar on high 

Above the lowlier sparrow ? 
And should his plumage be of gold 

His fate comes all the faster, 
All eyes the glorious bird behold, 

All long to be its master. 

The laurels that the fathers won 

Made only them immortal, 
The father cannot for the son 

Enter fame's narrow portal. 
Rise up and win a brighter crown 

Whose gleam no shame can banish. 
For storied urn cannot atone 

For glory born to vanish. 

Rise up and the polluted shrine 

To Freedom once erected 
Reconsecrate with spark divine. 

And let it be protected 
From howling hounds of party hate, 

From license and oppression. 
From tyranny of church or state, 

And fossil retrogression. 

On Jesus Christ, the corner's head, 
This temple has been builded. 

Let on it precious stones be laid. 
No base alloy just gilded. 



19 



That far and wide the nations may 

See rise a form gigantic, 
A light to lead a world astray 

Across the wide Atlantic. 

But if, filled full with power and gold, 

Thou dance the dance unholy 
Led by the slaves to Mammon sold, 

And scorn the poor and lowly, 
Thy star will vanish from its place 

And sink in gloom and sorrow. 
And after thee a worthier race 

Will greet a fairer morrow. 

—Lititz Express, Nov. 16, 1900 



OCTOBER 

Yes, my friends, we must be going 
In these lovely Autumn days 

While October winds are mowing- 
All the woodlands as we gaze. 

And the harvest is a treasure 
Of the red and yellow leaves, 

While Fall metes them with the measure 
That it meted out the sheaves. 

Ah, my friends, we dare not miss it, 

Since the charm cannot be told, 
Mark the air, the sunbeams kiss it 

Into lambent waves of gold, 
And the golden haze suffuses 

With a halo common things. 
All dull care the present loses 

In the glory that it brings. 

For a weaver is October, 

Broidering wondrous tapestries, 

He's an artist, gay — not sober — 
Loving brightest, richest dyes, 



[20] 



And a poet with a leaning- 

Toward the lyric in his verse — 
Every measure has a meaning 

Which the lisping leaves rehearse — 

A musician improvising 

Wondrous oratorios, 
Every living thing comprising 

Chords from which the music flows. 
With a magic touch he filleth 

All the landscape with his tunes. 
E'en the drowsy brooklet trilleth 

Echoes of forgotten Junes. 

Orpheus-like, he leads, we follow — 

Can we help it ? — for his sake 
Down there to the wooded hollow 

Where all shy things are awake. 
And their cheeks are red with blushes 

And they quiver with delight, 
While the sombre daylight flushes, 

For his feet are shod with light. 

Dare we, would we miss such splendor ? 

Ah, we would not, if we could, 
'Twere an insult to the sender 

Of such fleeting earthly good. 
Let us go and catch the beauty 

Of the passing Autumn glow. 
'Twill illumine days of duty 

When the leaden clouds hang low. 

— The Lancaster Neiv Era, Oct. 2U, 1901 



A DRINKING SONG 

(not aftkr the old style) 

Let poets sing of ruby wine 

And Bacchanalian revels. 
They bait the tempter's hook and line. 

We aim for higher levels. 



[21] 



We'll sing of water pure and sweet 
And praise no foaming flagons. 

We'll lay no snares for heedless feet 
And loose no fiery dragons. 

We know that in the brimming cup 

There lurketh still an adder. 
The drunkard drinks his fortune up. 

Can any fate be sadder ? 

If we but drink of Adam's ale 
We're sure to be the winner. 

A drink it is that cannot fail 
To strengthen saint and sinner. 

Let pretty maidens all beware 

Of men who like to guzzle, 
For, like a mad dog at a fair, 

They are without a muzzle. 

Cold water will no passions feed. 

It keeps the hot brow cool. 
For this whoever runs may read. 

E'en though he be a fool. 

Cold water makes the reason keen. 
The nerves quite firm and steady. 

It keeps the conscience pure and clean. 
The tongue makes swift and ready. 

Of no short-lived Lethean draught 

It ever was a mixer. 
But they who this cool beverage quaffed 

Had the true life elixir. 

King Alcohol his thousands slew, 

Ten thousand water healeth, 
The miseries that wine's votaries knew 

No history e'er revealeth. 

The nations rise, the nations fall 

In centuries' grand rotation. 
From Noah to Belshazzar all 

Wine rules without cessation. 



[ 22 



The throned demon, he dictates 

Throiig-h every great upheaval. 
He ruleth Zens and the Fates, 

Incarnate son of Evil ! 

But where cold water's potentate 

'Tis reason fair that ruleth. 
And neither sot nor addle-pate 

The ready wire pulleth. 

Who rules his spirit greater is 

Than he who takes a city. 
No drinker ever doeth this, 

The greater is the pity. 

Take heed, ye men and maidens all, 

Remember this and ponder, 
The small thief scales the garden wall, 

The greater crawleth under. 

The little foxes spoil the vines, 

The little drinks the purses. 
Who once Gambrinus' toils divines 

Had better heed my verses. 

Cold Water is our king today. 

O, may he reign forever. 
And may he rum's battallions slay 

To rise again, ah never ! 

—Lititz Express, Oct. 19, 1900 



DEATH THE SWIFTEST RIDER 

(translated from the GERMAN OF EMANUEL GEIBEl) 

There is a rider men call Death, 

No faster e'er was seen. 
He outrides the rosy morning's breath, 

The lightning swift and keen. 

[23] 



All spotless as the driven snow, 

Unharnessed is his steed ; 
The buzzing- arrow from his bow 

Flies to the heart with speed. 

Past hamlet, city, hill and vale 

He flies in wild career. 
Through rosy dawn and twilight pale 

Pursues his chase of fear. 

Where'er he rides with noisy tread 

The bells behind him ring". 
And funeral dirges for the dead 

Abroad the breezes fling. 

Then let not pride possess your mind, 
O man, though crowned you be ! 

You are as chaff before the wind 
And even so must flee. 

The sands within the glass run low, 

The hour strikes anon, 
This page your breath moves to and fro 

And your race may be run. 

—Lancaster New Era, Jan. 28, 1905 



MY STAR 

The night was cold, the night was still. 
The snow lay white on road and hill. 
The western sky was flushed with red, 
The crescent moon shone overhead. 
The stars within the clear, cold sky 
Sparkled and glittered bright and high. 
One star shone bright above the rest 
In lonely splendor in the west, 
A star of royal magnitude. 
Within whose sphere did not intrude 
His paler brethren all around 
Strewed far as the horizon's bound. 

[24l 



Night after night I watched that star, 

A silent devotee from far. 

None of the rest were aught to me ; 

That one alone I seemed to see, 

While the vast distance only lent 

More charm unto its ravishment. 

Hence I was not inclined to fret 

That space to nearer view had set 

A bar I never could remove 

Though endless years in vain I strove. 

One night my star had disappeared. 
In vain 1 looked, in vain I feared. 
The sky of lesser stars is full. 
That sky to me is dark and dull. 
Men say some stars are quite as fair. 
They only add to my despair. 
I worship at an empty shrine. 
The idol that I thought was mine 
Its light has shed ; on empty space 
I gaze with fond but hopeless face. 

If some fair eve my star again 

Should shine, would I feel joy or pain ? 

And would I know if 'twere the same 

Or one that only bore its name? 

How can I know if light is gone 

Or if for me is spread alone 

A curtain which I may not lift 

Because unworthy such a gift? 

Can others see that star which I 

No longer see within the sky ? 

In vain I ask. None understand. 

All stars men find alike. At hand 

Are things of life. The stars are cold 

And far away. How should they know 

One more or less in heaven's show? 

And so I stand unanswered yet. 

Mine eyes on empty space are set. 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, March 11, 1905 

[25] 



THE RICH YOUNG MAN 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 

A young man once to Jesus came — 

Vast wealth some day he would inherit — 

*' Good Master, what I need to claim 
Eternal life, tell me, what merit ? " 

" Call me not good for good is He, 

The God to whom our prayers we render. 

" But why," said Christ, do you ask me 
When laws and prophets wisdom tender?" 

" Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill ; 

But above all shalt love thy brother, 
The holiest, highest duty still. 

Writ on man's heart before all other." 

" All this," the youth said undismayed, 
I have from childhood truly heeded." 

So you would think Christ would have said, 
" Then go in peace, no more is needed." 

But no the Savior said, " Go forth. 
Thy goods be with the poor divided. 

For thus can treasure not of earth 
By heavenly mercy be provided." 

But deeply troubled slunk away 
The youth of riches vast possessor. 

To his disciples Christ did say, 

" See Mammon's loveless faith's confessor ! 

" In truth who all the law doth keep 

He'll find it little him availeth. 
Through needles' eyes may camels creep. 

To enter heaven the rich man faileth." 

Christ's true religion here behold 
As He to His disciples taught it. 

The uncorrupted Gospel told. 

Yet never yet a rich man sought it ! 

[26] 



In Christ's name nigh two thousand years 
Yourselves with pomp you've been baptizing, 

Yet to His shame your rule appears 
With swords and funeral pyres rising, 

To whom do you the crops confide ? 

Whose sweat gives field and forest tillage ? 
Who palace, dome and fort provide ? 

Whose industry built town and village ? 

Who doth the earth's depths penetrate, 
For ore and coal with nature wrestle ? 

Who strives with ocean monsters great 
To bring pearls that in darkness nestle ? 

Who weaves the network of your street? 

Who lightly guides o'er land and ocean, 
Like birds that thread the air so fleet, 

To race with wings of steam in motion ? 

When mind conceived a noble deed, 
When hand a splendid work perfected 

It was the hand of one in need. 
The mind privation had directed. 

Your brother 'twas, the common boor, 
Though suffering mind and body over. 

Created luxuries, naked, poor, 

That you had food and clothes to cover. 

Your thanks, your pay, say, state the sum ? 

In lowest slavery sunk, forsaken. 
And, to the shame of Christendom, 

His native birthright ye have taken. 

And you as Christians would appear. 

Like unto Jesus ? Tell us truly, 
Ye rich and prosperous, have ye e'er 

Shared with the poor or helped the lowly ? 

Say, truly, who among you was 

E'er with his earthly lot contented ? 

Nor, powerful and rich, sought cause 

To have his power and wealth augmented ? 

[27] 



And how you hate and mock your slave 
AMio dares to speak of pain's reHeving-! 

Seeks he full human rights to have 
'Tis treason, crime beyond believing. 

The hour of judgment draweth nigh. 

And see your forts, your thrones are crumbling ! 
The shaking scoundrel hears pass by 

The crowd's batallions' hollow rumbling, 

Within the future's lap at rest 

A spirit's darkly prophesying. 
For weal or woe. Seek peace, 'tis best ! 

If battle, let your flags be flying! 

—Lititz Express, Nov., 1903 



WHAT WAS HEARD IN THE WOODS 

What came ye out for to hear ? said the wind. 
What came ye out for to see ? said the trees. 

We have naught for their souls who leave not behind 
The cares of the world. We have nothing for these. 

Will ye have, said the trees, my russet and gold. 
My garments of scarlet and purple so rare ? 

They are not to be bought and not to be sold 
In the markets and streets of Vanity Fair. 

Would ye prison the song, said the wind, that I sing ? 

Mortal tongue cannot render nor keep the tune. 
From the heart of the universe do I bring 

The measure and melody of my rune. 

What came ye out for to see and to hear, 
O mortals, so blind, so deaf and so dull ? 

The things ye would seek ye will find them not near, 
For your hearts of the world are surfeit and full. 

Of those joys of the world that are tinsel and glare, 
The wealth of the world that is pomp and show. 

Its pleasures all mingled with sorrow and care. 
And despair the harvest of the seed that ye sow. 

[28] 



The thoughts that ye think and the words that ye speak, 

Frail children of clay, are folly and noise. 
If our holiest of holies ye dare seek 

Bring the heart of the child but discard childish toys. 

Said the wind and the trees, then we'll give of our best, 
Our gifts that are not for barter nor sale. 

They are freedom from care, simple joy, peace and rest, 
And they last when the treasure of earth shall fail. 

—Lancaster New Era, Nov., 1902 



AN ELEGY 

Who is lying on that bier ? 

Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
One the Nation held most dear. 

Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 

Sound the solemn funeral bell, 
Far and wide the tidings tell 
How the viper whom we nursed 
Sent its venomed fangs accursed, 
Sent them to the Nation's heart. 
Sent them to the Nation's head. 
For our crimes a good man bled. 
Spread we ashes on our hair, 
Hunt the serpent to its lair. 
In the crime we all have part. 

Sound the solemn funeral bell, 
Sound aloud our Chieftain's knell. 
Tell the nations far and wide 
How our noble Leader died. 
Lowly our beloved lies ! 
He the man whom we revered, 
Whom all honored, no one feared. 
He the statesman, wise and great. 
Safe who steered our Ship of State. 
Ah, he was a shining prize ! 



29 



Sound the solemn funeral bell. 

Let the tong^ue be muffled well 

Lest it send another soul 

To our hero's blessed goal, 

Lest the gentle heart that beat 

In communion with his own, 

In the happy past as one 

At the cruel blow should break, 

Break at once for sweet love's sake. 

Make the sacrifice complete. 

Sound the solemn funeral bell, 

May the mournful peal foretell 

Purer manhood, better laws. 

While the stealthy worm that gnaws 

At our vitals lives no more, 

Not in vain the sacrifice, 

Not in vain our hero dies 

If his dying pave the way 

For a happier, brighter day 

By the seers foretold of yore. 

Who is lying on the bier ? 

Ah, well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
'Tis our Chieftain lieth here. 

Ah, well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 



President William McKinley was shot at the Pan-American Exposition at Buf- 
falo, by an anarchist, September 6, 1901, and died September 14, 1901. This poem was 
published in the L,ancaster New Era September 18, 1901. 



SUPERSTITION 

We sometimes find within an ancient house 
Some hidden nook, some corner unexplored 
That once concealed an unknown miser's hoard 
But now the roost of owl and bat and mouse 
Whose slumbers deep no gleam of sun will rouse. 
Stately and fair without, within well stored 
With spoils of land and sea, of pen and sword. 
To charm a sage or grace a fool's carouse. 
That house is haunted, though mayhap unknown 

[30] 



Unto the owner's self. Thus, too, we see 
A man good, honest, upright, void of guile, 
Within whose brain there yet may be some lone 
Spot tenanted by superstitions he 
Would spurn did he suspect their presence vile. 

— The Rostrum, Aug., 1901 

MY SHIPS 

When my ships set sail together 

'Twas early in the day. 
I sat on the shore and watched them 

Till all had sailed away. 

The one was gorgeous and stately, 

And one was all of gold, 
The third was sapphire and silver, 

A wonder to behold. 

Like a snowflake one, least comely. 

Least valued of all by me. 
I cared not for its going ; 

More cared I for the three. 

So they sailed away together 

O'er the troublous sea of years. 
O, how I waited and waited, 

With longing and with tears ! 

And when their voyage was ended 

Did my ships come back to me. 
Freighted with a wondrous burden, 

Over the troubled sea ? 

The first was Fame and it foundered 

Afar on an iceberg's peak. 
The next was Wealth that sailing 

Had sprung an awful leak. 

The third one, Love, sailed bravely 

Till, on a fog-bound coast. 
It struck the rock of Suspicion, 

And there the ship was lost ! 

[31] 



The last was Faith and slowly 

It sailed back, soiled and worn, 
But it bore a precious cargo, 

Full freighted, though forlorn. 

I loved the weather-worn vessel 

Better than ever the three, 
For my life was gone and only 

This one was left to me. 

At last I learned the lesson 

Which of my ships was best. 
'Tis the one I can trust to bear me 

Into the haven of rest. 

Linden Hall Echo, April, 1901 
THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL 

"and thou, O RRLSHAZZA.R, HAST NOT HUMBLED THINE HEART, THOUGH THOU 
KNEWEST ALL THIS.'''— Dan. 5 : 22. 

Once a king in drunken revel, as the Holy Book has told, 
Drinking from the sacred vessels, in his blasphemy grown 

bold, 
Saw upon the wall emblazoned his own fate in words of 

gold. 

Now again a doom is written and a nation's fall decreed, 
And a mighty harvest ripened, springing from a little seed. 
Well for thee, oh cowering despot, if thou dost the warn- 
ing heed ! 

Dost thou see the red blood flowing, over in the lurid 

East? 
Dost thou see thy people trodden lower than the lowest 

beast ? 
Dost thou hear the malediction upon him who hurts the 

least ? 

Hear the thunder of the cannon, see thy beaten legions fly ! 
See the corpses heaped like mountains where the vultures 

hover nigh ! 
Send them forth unto the slaughter. Ask them why they 

eo to die ! 



b" 



[32] 



In the iron fortress bind them, they who dared to utter 

truth ! 
Send the flower of thy people, send the promise of thy 

youth 
To the dungeon, to the galley ! Send them without shame 

or ruth. 

Send them ? Truly thou hast sent them ! Will the foun- 
tain ne'er give out 

Till the noblest all have perished ? There remains the 
rabble rout 

Who will compass like an army all thy tyrant ])rood about. 

Prate not of the "yellow peril." See ye not 'tis God's own 

hand 
That great Russia's name has written on a bar of shifting 

sand 
Which the heathen, like a flood-tide, shall engulf at His 

command ? 

Matters it who does the weighing if the scales be held by 

Him ? 
Matters it the sword who wielded, if it be not dull nor 

dim? 
Matters it if small the vessel filled with wrath unto the 

brim ? 

Wise old Peter dreamed of conquest far unto the Yellow 

Sea, 
Of an Asiatic Empire greater never should there be. 
But he missed the true foundation of a people strong and 

free. 

Like the great Assyrian's image, golden head and feet of 

clay, 
Shall a mighty empire topple, growth of centuries, in a 

day ; 
For, though blind it seems, God's justice at the last doth 

truly weigh. 

— The Lancaster Intelligencer, March 21, 1905 

[33] 



THE KING'S PALACE 

It is within the mystic East 

Where Hfe once counted one long feast 

That legend finds a home and song. 
Strange are the tales that oft are told 
Of Bagdad and her Kalifs old 

Translated from an unknown tongue. 

Of many a wondrous tale we hear 
One doth appeal unto the ear. 

As well as to the soul of man. 
It tells how once a Persian king 
Unto his steward gave his ring 

And treasures vast at Ispahan. 

" I go to see the world," he said, 
"And give thee power in my stead 

To build a palace grand and fair. 
On my return I hope to see 
The finest ever built for me. 

Remember, this shall be thy care." 

The monarch left. The steward spent 
His time to build a momument 

That should his royal master please. 
But as he passed throughout the land 
For building stone on every hand 

So much of misery he sees 

That ere he thinks the treasure's gone 
And happy homes, not sculptured stone. 

Remain his master's eye to greet. 
The king was wroth and soon in jail 
The hapless steward to bewail 

His piteous lot had found a seat. 

That night the monarch had a dream. 
And in his vision it did seem 

The gates of heaven were opened wide. 
He saw the new Jerusalem, 
All bright with many a jewel and gem. 

And joyful saints on every side. 



34 



And in that city without peer 
He saw a beauteous palace near, 

The Hke he never dreamed before. 
*' For whom was yonder palace built ? " 
''For thee, O king, if thou but wilt 

Possess the home paid with thy store. 

'' The gifts with which thy steward blest 
Thy hapless subjects and redressed 

The wrongs of many wretched poor 
Have raised this palace rich and great. 
Go home, O king, and expiate 

Thy wrong to him thou didst immure." 

The angel ceased. Aroused from sleep 
The king made haste his charge to keep. 

The steward now new favor found. 
O'erwhelmed with honors and with wealth 
He reached old age blessed Avith good health, 

And love of grateful people croAvned. 

The moral is not far to seek. 

Make your foundations strong, not weak, 

By building in the human heart. 
The poor man's blessings and his prayers 
Will raise for you the golden stairs 

To yonder home not framed by art. 

— The Moravian, Nov. 11, 1902 



WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 

Said the daisies to the asters, 
As they nodded by the way: 

" There's a sound of human footsteps 
Where the waving shadows play." 

And the asters crowned with purple, 
Whispered to the golden rod : 

" Human touch to us is fatal, 
Human foot with death is shod." 



35 



Said the asters to the daisies : 

"Does it matter, after all? 
For Jack Frost will soon come hither, 

And before his breath we fall." 

And the golden rod made answer, 
" Don't you think 'tis better so 

That a human soul we gladden 
Ere we perish 'neath the snow ? 

For we know the children love us 

And their love is undefiled. 
Since we must die let us perish 

In the warm clasp of a child." 



The New Era, Sept. 12, 1903 



COMMONPLACE PEOPLE 

What will you do with the commonplace men, 

And the commonplace women, say ? 
With the men not led by visions and dreams, 
For whom no fortunate star ever beams 
Upon the commonplace way ? 

With the men who have not the artist's eye 

For the glory of land and sea, 
Nor the hand to mingle the pigments rare 
And picture the beauty of earth more fair 

Than we dreamed that it might be ? 

There are men who have not the poet's soul. 

Nor voice of the singer divine. 
Who can never sway the masses of men 
With the silver tongue nor the ready pen, 

Nor charm the gold from the mine. 

There are men who have never ruled a state. 

Nor paced in the scholar's gown. 
Who never have won the hero's name, 
Nor graced the temple that men call Fame, 
And never will wear a crown. 

[ 36 ] 



There are men who fig'ht in the rank and file 

And may never command the host, 
Whose bodies must lie 'neath a nameless mound, 
While never a drum nor trumpet will sound, 
. And no one will miss the lost. 

There are men who must sow while others reap, 

W^ho must labor while others rest. 
Who must delve and search and may never know 
What it is to find and to have, but throw 

Life away in fruitless quest. 

Ah, sure, we have need of commonplace men. 

There's commonplace work to be done. 
And the men who bask both early and late 
In the smile of a beneficent Fate 

Are fewest under the sun. 

There was One who came to this commonplace world 

For commonplace people to die. 
And rose again from a commonplace grave 
A commonplace race from its sin to save 

And fit for heaven on high. 

Sure, then, we can lead a commonplace life 

Since our Master did not disdain 
To bear our commonplace burden and care, 
Nor thought us too commonplace to share 

In the glories of His reign ! 

— The Intelligencer, Nov. 18, 1902 



THE OLD CLOCK 

The old clock stands in the corner there, 
Its form is tall and its face is fair. 
And it has the benignant and placid air 

Of one that is sure of its place. 
It has somewhat of a pedigree 
As one with half an eye can see. 
For it is its own best family tree, 

And the heir of a noble race. 

[3/1 



Though not quite as old as Noah's ark 
It has long ago passed the century mark 
And has ticked through periods light and dark 

In the annals of our land. 
It knew the men whom the Indian wars 
Adorned with numerous scalps and scars, 
It heard of the British Jacks and Tars 

And our Georo^e and his fearless band. 



fe' 



It was told how our sea rovers sent 
The English ships from the continent, 
And how once old Alexico was rent 

When our Yankee boys arose. 
It quivered with righteous wrath and shame 
When the first attack on Fort Sumter came 
And the boys in blue were all aflame 

To punish the black man's foes. 

It heard how the knights of a colder age 
Set forth in the zeal of chivalrous rage 
Against a despotic Spain to wage 

A war for a race oppressed. 
The last, and would God that it might be, 
That never a war our land should see 
Save to set men's souls or bodies free 

From the East unto the West. 

I don't know what the old clock may think, 
But it ticks on without nod or wink. 
And time has left nor wrinkle nor chink 

On its changelss countenance. 
It is as calm as old Time itself, 
Above the cares of honor and pelf. 
It sees all things, yet it's on the shelf. 

Unruffled by life's mischance. 

We pigmy mortals will strive and fret, 

And toil and worry and aye forget 

That life is not all and the end is not yet 

[38] 



But old clock thy face benign 
Should teach us a lesson of quiet and peace, 
To live in the midst of alarms in ease, 
Since time from all care will bring release, 

As we read in the Book Divine. 

—The Neiv Era, May 7, 190U 



NEMESIS 

Do you hear how the poor at your door make their moan ? 
We have asked you for bread and you give us a stone, 

We have asked you for drink and you give us gall, 

We have asked for a bed and you give us a stall ! 
O the world was made wide and the world was made fair, 
But you've fettered the sunshine and prisoned the air ; 

You have taxed all the land, you have pinioned the 
breeze. 

While we toil and we sweat you can live at your ease. 

Is it just ? Is it right ? Are you better than we ? 

Who gave you dominion o'er the land and the sea? 
We were made of one clay by the breath of one God 
Though earth's sceptre you wield and we carry the hod. 

We must labor. You rule. Whose the greater claim 

To the honor of man ? There is surely no shame 

In the humblest of toil. 'Twas the Christ who wrought 
At the carpenter's bench and 'twas He that taught 

The worth of the poor and the lofty estate 

Of the men who are scorned as the puppets of fate. 

Must we grovel for aye, like the swine in the mire? 

Have we never a spark of the heavenly fire ? 
Content with our food and our drink and a roof. 
Like the beast of the field that parteth the hoof ? 

Eyes we have that can see all the beauty of earth, 

Ears to hear the sweet strains of celestial birth, 

[39] 



And hearts that respond to the kindred demand, 
As the strings of the harp to the master's hand. 

Say who painted the skies for the favored few? 

And the stars, were they hung- out for us or for you ? 
Were the bowels of the earth stored with riches untold 
For one sordid tribe to secure and to hold ? 

Was the wealth of the eons reserved but for those 

Who have power to take it and strike down who oppose ? 

'Tis the plaint of the ages, the plea of all time. 

Did we hunger for bread, that, perhaps, were no crime. 
Scarce master so hard that he grudges a shed, 
A dry crust and a bone and straw for a bed 

To the slave who toils, to the beasts who may bring 

A good price in the market, no trivial thing ! 

But we ask you for food for the soul, for the mind, 
And you put out our eyes, like Sanson's, bid us grind. 

At the mill, use our strength, as of old, for your gain, 
And be still as of old. All our struggles are vain. 

Aye, dumb brutes we have been in the years that are 
past, 

But the giant, though blind, in his strength rose at last. 
We arise ! have risen ! No more beg but demand 
The right, not as slaves to toil, but to stand 

In the height of our manhood, the strength of our power 

Your equals, your peers in the stress of the hour. 

Should you spurn us as oft you have spurned us before 
Then the weight of the blame shall lie at your door. 

For the temple you reared with the blood we have shed, 

With the labors and cares of the noble long dead. 
With the prayers of the mother, the tears of the child. 
Now by buyer and seller degraded, defiled, — 

Its altars all blackened where once burned the flame 

Of freedom so holy — while idols defame, 
Shall topple around you and fall to the ground. 
While we perish alike all in ruin profound ! 

— Lititz Express, Jan. 16, 1903 

[40] 



TRAVELING 

(from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 

Friends, you would that I should travel, 

Lungs expanding on the wing? 
Tempt from narrow ruts of labor 

To the love of wandering ? 
Yet this very time more closely 

To my home I'm bound to cleave, 
Feel myself to it devoted. 

Richer far than you conceive. 

Ne'er can I exhaust these pathways. 

Never quite explore this vale. 
And the old, well-trodden footways 

Move me like the newest tale. 
When full oft the road is lonely. 

To myself I must declare, 
Then will brush in broadest daylight 

Cherished phantoms past me there. 

When the sunlight has departed 

Still my heart can find no rest, 
With it seeks from mountain turrets 

Fabled islands of the blest. 
When the stars emerge from darkness 

Forward I must press in might. 
And in ever widening orbits 

Tread the gods' own paths of light. 

Dreams of early youth and later. 

Past and future I can see. 
Boundless spaces of the heavens 

Hourly are mapped out for me. 
Therefore, friends, why should I travel ? 

Road and goal, I beg you, show. 
Even in home's quiet circle 

Hearts too oft will wandering go. 

—Lancaster New Era, Jan. 5, 1905 

[41] 



THE KATYDID 

Katy found the summer cool. 

Then she said she didn't. 
For, with Katies 'tis a rule 

Stick to truth they needn't. 
For, like all the Katie clan. 

They are sometimes contrary. 
When they argue with a man 

They can be slippery, very ! 

They will sit up all the night 

To argue on a question. 
They are always in the right. 

Avaunt the bare suggestion 
That a Katie might be wrong. 

If only for a moment ! 
Were all the Katies wise and strong 

Pray, who would quarrels foment ? 

Whether they are right or not, 

We even must forgive 'em, 
For they brighten many a spot, 

And so we may not grieve 'em. 
Does it matter, after all, 

Who speaks the last in meetin' ? 
Many giants great and tall 

By little words are beaten. 



Katie, stick to what you say. 

And if you did it, say it. 
And if you didn't, say so, pray. 

And no one will gainsay it. 
Chatter from the dark to dawn. 

E'en through the day, if't please you, 
None shall e'er upon my lawn 

Dare to molest or tease you. 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. S, X90S 

[42] 



THEN? 

When m}^ spirit meets your spirit when the years of time 

are spent, 
And the warp of misconceptions, Hke a garment has been 
rent, 
Will we love each other truly, as Ave did in days gone by 
When we dreamed that our affection nevermore could 
wane nor die ? 

When my spirit meets your spirit in the shadowy land of 

dreams, 
Wliere the shadows are the real things and the once real 
only seems, 
W^ill the things that cut and harrassed, will they matter 

in the least ? 
Or will we have put them from us far as West is from 
the East ? 

When my spirit meets your spirit, will we know each 

other, say. 
With the flesh that once encumbered, like a garment 
rolled away? 
Will the spirit be as lovely as the clay so w^ell we knew? 
Or will we shrink back in horror when we see the real 
and true? 

When my spirit meets your spirit in its stern reality 
Will we meet some other spirits in the flesh we used to 
see ? 
Win there be a rude awakening in that twilight gray 

and dim 
W^hen we know each comely mortal as he aye appears 
to Him ? 

When my spirit meets your spirit will the Judge of all be 

there ? 
Will the lightning of His glances fill us only with despair ? 
Or will He hide our nudeness with a garment richly 

dyed 
In the crimson blood of Calvary where He once for sin 
ners died ? 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. 20, 1905 

[43] 



COME, LORD JESUS, BE OUR GUEST ; 

(from THB GERMAN OF ADALBERT VON HANSTEIN) 

The days of the week passed in labor and pain 

And around the poor table they're seated again, 

The father, the mother, the children are here. 

Will no guest at this feast of the Lord's Day appear? 

As each look rests with scorn on the table so bare 

The hands of the father are folded in prayer : 

" I know One by whom both cot and palace are blest. 

Come Thou, Lord Jesus and be our Guest ! " 

" Thus I prayed as a child long ago at the knee 
Of the mother who taught in her fond piety. 
Many years have passed since she sank in the lomb 
And a wife by my side stood in young beauty's bloom. 
But even the children, scarce awakened to life, 
Find it means only toil, morn to eve, toil and strife. 
There is none to relieve us so hardly oppressed. 
O come Thou. Lord Jesus, be Thou our Guest ! 

" 'Tis a beautiful tale of the Christ, how, of yore 

Thou wast wont to wander by the Jordan's green shore. 

Thou didst choose Thy friends 'mid the poor of the 

earth, 
Those tormented by labor and want from their birth. 
Thou didst say as the council condemned Thee to die, 
" To the end of the world to you I am nigh! " 
O now kee]~) the sweet promise to us once addressed. 
Do come. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest! 

When at Easter the world by the vigor of Spring- 
Was pervaded Thy love conquered death's cruel sting. 
And when woodland and hedge bud anew and grow green 
We remember the day of Thy rising, I ween. 
Where but two can be found in Thy name who do meet 
It is there, Thou hast said, in their midst is my seat. 
O do Thou hear us pray, filled with longing, unrest. 
O come. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest ! " 



44 



The words died away the still circle among. 

On its hinges the door all noiselessly swung, 

And truly He enters, so solemnly slow, 

The holiest of features with meekness aglow. 

And a sacred joy fills each hea*rt with the tide 

For the love of heaven would with them abide ! 

And his head bows the father, with reverence depressed, 

" Be seated. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest! " 

- The Moravian, Sept. 2U, 1902 



A MEMORY 

Though the sky is curtained with clouds to-night 

And the air is heavy and chill, 
I am bathed in the amber light of a dream, 
A vision so bright it would almost seem 

Both the past and the present to fill. 
My fancy reverts tp an evening in May 

When the air was atune with song, 
And the odor of lilacs was strong on the breeze 
As it floated from cots embowered in trees 

Where the road went winding along. 

Yoii remember it well, you were with me, sweet. 

As we passed round the edge of a crag 
A hill rose up on our right, as you know. 
While a stream glided through the vale below. 

Less swift than our fleeted-footed nag. 
The path was bordered with junipers dark 

And the hill with violets blue. 
The shadows were creeping up from the dell 
Where the fervent shafts of the sun never fell 

And the shyest wood-flowers grew. 

On the round, green top of a hill in the west 

The sun was just going to bed. 
The while he was cushioned on pillows of cloud. 
Like the eider-duck's breast, yet his head was allowed 

To peep forth so round and so red. 

[45 1 



Then out from the shade of the junipers dense 

The brooklet again we met, 
And the waters clear formed a mirror of gold 
Where the sun might its glory redoubled behold 

Long after we thought it had set. 

Past farm house and hamlet, past grain field and wood 

'Neath the amber and opaline sky 
Ever onward we went and we chattered and laughed, 
And full deep of the odorous breezes we quaffed. 

Care free as the birds sailing by. 
We had gone on forever and aye, I am sure, 

As on wings of the light and the wind. 
But the deepening haze on the hills full soon. 
And the pallid face of the waning moon 

Brought the end of our ride to mind. 

—hancaster Intelligencer, Jan. 7, 1905 



THE NEW MUSE 

(from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 

When engaged in legal study, 

'Gainst my heart's impulses strong, 
And myself had but half severed 

From the tempting voice of song, 
Many a tune I dedicated 

To the God whose eyes are tied, 
Never one to thee, oh goddess 

Blind of Justice, had I tried ! 

Other times need other muses. 

And in this so earnest time 
Nothing agitates my bosom, 

Spurs me to the war of rhyme 
As when thou with scales and weapon, 

Themis, sit'st enthroned in might, 
Nations call'st to accusation, 

Kings to answer at thy right. 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 15, 1902 

[46] 



MARCH 

Thou ridst abroad on winos of mighty wind, 
Or treadst the earth a giant in thy wrath ; 
The nude trees shudder at thy touch unkind. 

The very dust makes haste to clear thy path, 
The dull skies seem to wear a leaden frown. 
Thou bringst to us the Winter's aftermath. 

Thy presence as connecting link we own 
Between stern Winter and the gentle Spring, 
As herald thou and harbinger art known. 

In lulls of thy wild sport the robins sing, 
And while the blue bird suns its azure breast 
The sable blackbird too is on the wing. 

And mild, calm days will come at thy behest 
When it might seem that April's self were here, 
With fickle smiles and tears alternate dressed 

Then through the mold in sheltered woods will peer 

The liverwort, its waxen petals flushed 

With rose and windflowers by the brooklet clear. 

Beneath thy ponderous foot thou hast not crushed 

The tender snowdrop nor the violet 

In their sweet presence thy loud voice is hushed. 

The yellow cowslip springs from marshes wet. 
The pussy willows peep from furry hoods. 
The crocus, jewel-like, in the grass is set. 

There's myriad life within denuded woods. 
And, though she seems to loiter by the way. 
The Spring is present in the mildest woods. 

—Linden Hall Echo, March 2, 1902 

[471 



THE PROPHECY 

This has reference to the Moravian Church founded in Bohemia in 1457. John 
Amos Comenius Komensky, a Bohemian, was one of its greatest men, bishop, author, 
scholar and educator, whose memory is revered to this day throughout the world. 

On the Bohemian mountains 

Comenius stood, the seer. 
Behind him lay the pleasant land 

Which he still held so dear. 
Before him lay the wide world, 

An exile he had trod, 
But to his country always true, 

His brethren and his God. 

The church he loved was scattered 

In cave and forest lone. 
Men had more confidence in beasts 

Than kindred of their own. 
Gone up in smoke and ashes 

The work of hand and brain, 
While happy home and prosperous town 

The wanderer sought in vain. 

But with unwavering courage 

And faith undaunted yet, 
Though by a legion doubts assailed 

And trials hard beset, 
He uttered the prediction 

The centuries have proved true : 
That Bohemia's crushed and outlawed church 

Should blossom forth anew. 

Count Zinzendorf, the noble. 

Furnished the garden fair. 
On German soil the " Hidden Seed " * 

Sprang up with proper care. 
'Twas there Bohemia's exiles 

Founded a home once more 
Beyond the reach of cruel foes 

And persecution sore. 

[48] 



The bones of old Komensky 

Two hundred years have lain 
Far from the land he loved so well 

But never saw again, 
And the church he served and honored 

Has compassed sea and land 
And works unceasing- to this day 

To keep her Lord's command. 



A name given to the almost annihilated church by the historians. 

— The Little Missionary, Feb. 1905 



THE WORLD PROBLEM 

(suggested by whittier's "voices of freedom ■) 

I laid aside the well-worn book, 

The sweet strains lingered in my ears. 
The dear old man ! he could not brook 

The sight of human woes and tears. 

He filled the measure of his years 
With manly words and manly deeds ; 

Now when the ripened fruit appears 
Of all his toil for human needs 
He shines a saint above the strife of creeds. 

He helped to wipe one deadly stain 

From ofif his country's noble shield 
Would that no more might there remain 

To leave her truest worth concealed ! 

Still must her knights go forth to wield 
The sword against a myriad foes 

Who will not fly and will not yield 
But battle to the bitter close. 
For, while life lasts, the blood of heroes flows. 

For hoary wrong will live and thrive, 
Entrenched within the forts of use; 

Or, newly-named, will still contrive 
A greener age her course shall choose. 

[49] 



The hydra Sin has many a ruse 
With which to charm the world anew 

And untrained warriors to confuse. 
The same old bogs she leads us through, 
Though by a path our fathers never knew. 

No more are human chattels sold 

In Southern markets at this day 
We only grind men into gold 

In factories in another way! 

No more the cruel stripe we lay, 
But burn the Negro at the stake 

For crimes his paler brother bold 
A milder punishment may take, 
And e'en the while a pang of pity wake. 

No more do witches expiate 

A crime they never could commit, 
But fouler demons daily bait 

Their hooks to catch the small of wit. 

The wise men of the Senate sit 
In halls of state through sessions long. 

They wrangle and words finely split 
The while the forms of vice and wrong. 
Grown bold, stalk unreproved the crowds among. 

And has the world no better grown 

Since One there died on Calvary's tree? 
Has the dark flower of sin not bloAvn 

And shed its fruit of misery? 

Ah, we must wait if such as He 
In the long night of ages can. 

We are but atoms, should we be 
Less patient than He is with man? 
He sees and saw the end ere we began. 

Ah, this must be our solace then, 
The world-old problem hath an end. 

He solved it who once died for men. 
On Him we must and can depend. 

[50] 



E'en now the pillars tottering bend 
Of time-worn systems built in blood. 

The hosts of sin may seem to rend 
The very heavens while placid Good 
Sits on her throne, though worlds in ruin stood. 

—New Era, June 16, 1901 



A PICTURE 

It is winter, dark and surly, 

When the morn breaks late, and early 

Night descends upon the land. 
Leaden are the skies and sombre 
And the earth lies locked in slumber 
'Neath her spotless robe snug hidden, 
While, like sentinels, unbidden, 

Air the tall trees guarding stand. 

But my heart is bent on dreaming. 
And a golden light is gleaming 
Somewhere, where my thoughts will wander, 
For I see a picture yonder 

Hanging on the parlor wall. 
There's the warmth of summer sending 
To my breast a glow and lending 
Charms unheeded when the splendor 
Shone around me and the tender 

Light eclipsed not Winter's pall. 

'Tis a field of luscious clover. 
That the wild bee hovers over, 

And the grass is deep and cool. 
Hard by stands a woodland shoAving 
Deep recesses where are growing 
Wild flowers sweet; and shly glancing, 
Through the sun-flecked spaces, dancing 
With the breezes gently sighing, 
And the bright-eyed squirrels prying 

Flutter birds about the pool. 



51 



Ah, methinks I hear the veery. 
And the wood thrush, bright and cheery. 
And the oriole's bugle sounding 
Where his orange breast is bounding-. 
While the s.tar-winged blackbird brushes 
Through the undergrowth of rushes 

To his nest concealed from view. 
There the stillness is unbroken. 
For he gives nor sign nor token. 

To his secret he is true. 



Midway through that field goes stealing. 
Like a silver serpent reeling, 
A clear brooklet, crystal, sparkling. 
And the trees bend, dipping darkling 

In its mossy, pebbly bed. 
There the large-eyed kine are standing 
With their placid miens commanding 
All this wealth of tranquil sweetness. 
Finding joy's unmixed completeness. 
With the winter lapping coolly 
'Round their feet embowered newly 

Where the cress its nets has spread. 

\Miat a scene of restful quiet, 
Happiness, contentment, nigh at 
Nature's bosom and the beating 
Of her great w^arm heart unweeting 

By her glad dumb children heard ! 
And that great heart still is throbbing 
Though the winter winds are sobbing- 
Through that same wood dark and naked. 
Through that field the Frost King raked. 
O'er that ice-bound streamlet crawling 
'Neath a mantel thick, appalling. 

With no sound of bee or bird. 



■Lancaster Intelligencer, Jan. 17, 190c 



LIMITED 

Ah yes, we think we know our friends, 
But then a look, a passing word. 
The heart is deeply pained and stirred. 

And so a life-long friendship ends ! 

We know the color of men's eyes. 
We touch each other as we pass. 
And each reads each as in a glass, 

But the soul's curtain may not rise. 

So wise in our own conceit 

We know just what a man will do. 
We know exactly where he'll go. 

Or how his life's events he'll meet. 

And should he make a sad mistake, 
The hidden motive un confessed, 
AVe gauge the soul behind the vest, 

And vvise and warning heads Ave shake. 

But if a noble deed is done 

A meaner object oft we guess, 

And carp the while that we should bless 

A soul that flies while we lie prone. 

We see with microscopic glance 

The smallest spot upon the shield, 
Then bravely we our weapon wield — 

The tongue — and each must have his chance! 

Within our minds as on a shelf. 
We set our friends up in a row. 
All weighed and measured, labelled, too. 

Each knows his brother as himself. 

Should men outgrow the pattern that 
We ready cut and made for them 
We're sure to sneer and to condemn. 

We'd make the head to fit the hat! 



53 



We strive to measure human love 
With scales, or by the inch and yard. 
And then we think it very hard 

If our small scales unequal prove. 

E'en thus we measure God, for we 

To such vast heig-hts can never reach ; 
We cannot understand His speech. 

We blindly grope but cannot see. 

The plumb line of our little minds 
Such depths of love can never sound. 
We can but circle 'round and 'round, 

And guess a wealth all undefined. 

We look abroad and wonder why 
The good is ever mixed with ill. 
And Tjad men thwart His holy will, 

AVhile the long centuries roll by. 

We cannot see why such and such 

A wicked thing He will permit. 

W^hy doth He not in judgment sit 
Who shivers systems without touch? 

He lives beyond the universe, 

He was and is ere time began. 

What thinkest thou, ephemeral man, 
Shall He thy small resentments nurse? 

If our friends' hearts are sealed thus. 
Who are but human as we are, 
How then can such as we are dare 

Judge God who made both them and us? 

—Lancaster New Era, August 28, 190'^ 



' THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 

When Mother Mary found her Son 

Stretched at full length ^upon the floor. 

To rest his tired limbs when day was done. 
Within the cottage door 



[54] 



Her living heart was filled with dread, 

For there upon the floor she saw 
A sliadow dark extend from feet to head, 

Symbol of fear and awe. 

The cross, ah yes, the fated cross. 

Whose shadow lay upon her heart, 
Emblem of all her grief and shame and loss 

That should no more depart. 

Beneath that shadow walked the Christ 

•For thirty years and faltered not, 
Upon its cursed wood He sacrificed 

The glories of His lot. 

That shadow falls upon us still. 

Rock-like within a desert land; 
Beneath it we can safely rest until 

Storms die at His command. 

It leads us through the wilderness, 

A cloud by day, a fire by night, 
As once of old through times of joy and stress 

Israel was lead aright. 

No longer symbol now of fear, 

But type alone of One who freed 
Our guilty hearts from sin, the cross is dear 

To us in very deed. 

O blessed shadow, let it rest 

Forevermore upon my soul ! 
There where thy form is found w^ithin the breast 

The sin-sick are made whole. 

O blessed cross, lead thou the way 
To yonder home where He who died 

Doth live and reign in endless, blessed sway, 
Jesus, the crucified. 

— The Moravian, March 26, 1902 



ss 



THE LITITZ SPRINGS 

When her head the pussy willow 
Dons and rising from her pillow 

In the soft, warm lap of Mother Earth the Spring- 
flower feels her way, 
When the hemlock shakes its hoary 
Locks at Winter's feet before the 

Slow advancing steps of milder hours that herald 
brighter day, 

When the fervent sun of Summer 
Woos with kisses every comer. 

Makes him seek the shade sequestered of some leafy, 
cool retreat. 
When the Autumn air is weaving 
Golden charms perpetual, leaving 

Misty aureoles surrounding all the landscape at one's 
feet, 

Then I seek a spot enchanted. 
By all dearest memories haunted, 

Hallowed by the dreams of childhood and the joys of 
later time. 
Spot to me there is none dearer 
To my heart, nor aqy nearer. 

Hence, indeed, I can but choose it for the subject of my 
rhyme. 

Parks and gardens all unending 

In this land their charms are lending 

To our lordly towns and cities from the mountains to 
the sea. 
Yet the Yellowstone, I know it, 
And Niagara's self below it 

Fall in tender recollection 'neath this spot so dear to me. 

Should I e'er be forced to wander 
In strange zones and sadly ponder 

O'er the scenes I left behind me in my dear and native 
land 

[56] 



One there is would stand out ever, 
Distance could efface it never, 

Like a cherished picture painted by some skilled and 
loving hand. 

And that picture! Will you listen 
AVhile I paint it? Men did christen 

(Old Moravian hamlet fathers in the days of long ago) 
Just a little spring surrounded 
With a woodland green, and bounded 

With a fence this spot idylic where the rippling waters 
flow. 

See the sunlit spaces gleaming 
Through the fretted leaf-work, dreaming 

Bend the tall trees stately over, mirrored in the glassy 
pool. 
See the checkered pathways leading 
Up the terraced hill-side threading 

Still green nooks where lovers loiter dreaming 'mid the 
shadows cool. 

Here the robin carols cheerly. 
And the oriole whistles clearly, 

Here the speckled trout is dancing blithely o'er the 
pebbly bed, 
Here the squirrel scampers shyly 
And the wood mouse nibbles slyly 

Where the emerald moss its meshes o'er the marshy 
ground has spread. 

Here the guileless laugh of childhood 
Echoes through the bosky wildwood. 

Here the youths and maidens wander in a glad com- 
munion blest, 
Here the weary wanderer findeth 
WHiat his jaded soul remindeth 

Of his own long vanished Eden and his long abandoned 
quest. 

— Lancaster Neiv Era, June 12, 1902 

[57] 



A LITTLE CLOUD 

A little cloud on the horizon, 

No bigger than a hand. 
And yet before the day was done 

It darkened all the land. 
The prophet knew well what it meant 

It meant the blessed rain 
So long withheld at last was sent 

To glad the thirsty plain. 

O prophets of a later date, 

Can ye not read the sign 
Writ plainly by the hand of Fate, 

Guided by Power divine? 
What means that cloud on the far-ofif rim 

Of a bright and sunlit sky? 
It means the heavens will soon be dim 

With storm-clouds rushing by. 

The fool beside his wine sits long. 

The miser counts his gold. 
The thunder's drowned amid the song. 

The lightning's flash is cold 
Beside the ruddy lamplight's glow. 

Once more upon the wall 
Of earth's palatial mansions show 

The words that mark their fall. 

Belshazzars of a later time. 

Soon shall your doom be read ! 
The great Avenger of all crime 

Is not asleep nor dead. 
Look well to yonder little cloud 

Upon the border far. 
It means the downfall of the proud. 

The sombre threat of war. 

It means the thirsty land shall drink 
From springs of heavenly grace, 

It means that earthly thrones shall shrink 
Before Jehovah's face, 

[58] 



It means the just shall rule the earth 

While strife and tumult cease, 
And thousand years of war give birth 

To thousand years of peace. 

—Lititz Express. Nov. 29, 1901 



THE SPARROWS 

The sparrows are a noisy tribe, 

A busy folk so garrulous ; 
They seem to chat and tease and jibe 

In gay content, with endless fuss. 
They flutter down upon the street, 
Then fly before the passing feet 
With haste unstudied yet discreet. 

Upon yon ivy-mantled tower 

They build their nests and rear their young, 
And there I hear them every hour 
They are not blest with liquid note. 
They wear no gorgeous painted coat, 
No charm on which the poets dote. 

From matins unto vespers rung. 

And yet they have a part to fill 

In Nature's plan, I doubt it not. 
Thy songsters haunt the wood and rill. 

The sparrow finds its humble lot 
In city streets so dull and bare. 
So destitute of sun and air 
That naught there lives that's green and fair. 

It bears a gleam of sunlit skies 

To gloomy yards. Its glancing wing, 

The .sparkle of its small bright eyes. 
Its merry chirp perhaps may bring 

To minds all darkened by the gloom 

Of sin and care a dream of bloom 

In country lanes sweet with perfume. 

[ 59 ] 



It hath a wider mission yet, 

To pick fragments that might pollute, 
And yet itself no harm doth get 

From what is trodden under foot. 
Its business thus to purify 
The street lest man should taste and die 
Of poisoned germs that round him lie. 



Ah, little birds, I love you well. 

Your ceaseless chatter does not jar 
Upon the ear like sounds that well 

From labor's smoke-grimed field of war 
Your russet coats are like the bark 
On woodland trees, your footprints mark 
A track like that of meadow lark. 



You're brothers to the thrushes brown 

And to the robin near of kin. 
I love you for their sakes and frown 

On your detractors. 'Twere a sin 
To scorn the dusty race whom One 
Saw fit to mention, did not shun 
Their fall to note, as we have done. 



We human sparrows who are born 
To humble lots and common toil, 

We have no cause to mope and mourn 
For finer vesture, richer spoil. 

We have our uses; let us learn 

To cheerily chirp ; 'twill serve our turn 

As well, and then amid the stern 

Realities we daily taste 

Use well our wings from first to last. 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, March 21, 1902 



60] 



OLD AGE 

I sit in the twilight with folded hands 

'Mid the shadows of the past 
I'm stranded alone upon the sands 

By an ocean dim and vast. 

My eyes are heavy with unshed tears, 
And dim with tears that were shed, 

And adown the far vista of the years 
I see but ghosts of the dead. 

As they pass before me in long review. 
My childhood and youth and prime 

I ask, did I do the best I could do 
With the precious gift of time? 

Did I fold soft hands in sluggard ease. 

As the swift years fled away, 
Striving myself alone to please 

And shunning the better way? 

Did I clothe the naked and feed the poor? 

Visit the sick and distressed? 
Or did I stubbornly close the door 

Against the heavenly Guest? 

Ah no, I strove with a halting gait 

To follow the Master afar. 
But the way was narrow, the path was strait. 

Spirit and flesh were at war. 

I see down the aisles of years that are gone 
Not phantoms of friend and foe. 

But the ghosts of victories I should have won 
O'er the sins of long ago ! 

So the record of years is not as fair 

As a record of years should be, 
But the blood of Christ, my soul, ah, there 

A solace is found for thee ! 



6i] 



These hands are hardened with toil and brown, 
They have earned their hard-earned rest. 

Gladly I lay my burdens down 
And trust my God for the rest. 

There is One who walks on the lonely strand 

As human comforts flee, 
And He beckons me to that far-off land 

Where there shall be no more sea. 

— The Moravian, Dec. 6, 1899 



THE YELLOW BIRD 

'Twas a little yellow bird, 
Sweetest singer I had heard, 
That my uncle said he'd bring 
When he came to us again 
In the Spring. 

So I thought of naught beside 
From the morn to eventide 
But the bird that he would bring 
When my uncle came again 
In the Spring. 

When at length the bird was brought 
It was not what I had thought, 
Not the yellow bird he'd bring 
When my uncle came again 
In the Spring. 

Ah, the bitter pain and ruth ! 
Uncle had not told the truth. 
For the bird would never sing 
That he brought and gave to me 
In the Spring. 

And its coat was not of gold 
It was russet to behold. 
Saddest tears 'twould only bring 



[62 



Uncle's plain and silent bird 
In the Spring. 

But I grew to love that bird 
Though its voice was only heard 
In a chirp. It could not sing. 
Fond companions we became 
That same Spring. 

Many a golden bird I've chased 
But its lustre was effaced 
Ere 'twas caught, nor could it sing 
Like the wild birds of the wood 
In the Spring. 

So I've learned to be content 
With the brown birds that were meant 
With their cheering chirp to bring 
Comfort through the winter drear 
As in Spring. 

— The New Era, Sept. 23, 1905 

THE LESSON OF ARBOR DAY 

Now in the chaplet of the years 

That generous Nature weaves 
Once more the verdant spring appears 

All garlanded with leaves. 

And while the fickle April skies 

Alternate smile and frown, 
The dying March wind softly sighs 

And lays his sceptre down. 

In harmony with both we gaze 

Where once a purling brook 
Meandered through a forest's maze, 

More giving than it took. 

But both are gone. Where oak trees stood 

Like monarchs on a throne, 
Where walnuts, chestnuts filled the wood 

With treasures all their own, 

[63] 



Behold dark wastes, for, year by year. 

Felled by the woodman's blow. 
Our grand old forests disappear, 

And streamlets cease to flow. 

Rash were the hands that sealed their doom, 

And rash the heads that planned 
By woodman's ax to spread such gloom 

O'er hill and mountain land. 

Oh! shall these tortured vales cry out 

In vain for their release 
From storm and scorching sun and drought, 

While harvests still decrease? 

No ; let us strive, while yet we may, 

Past errors to amend, 
Till each successive Arbor Day 

Becomes a trusty friend 

To him who plants and him who reaps, 

And dreary wastes rejoice 
As once they did, when 'mid the deeps. 

Earth heard Creation's voice. 

And ye who have the power to stay 

This waste of soil and trees 
Send forth your message, " Plant, but lay 

No longer hand on these." 

Then fountains nursed in loving arms. 

Shall heal each sun-seamed clod. 
And Nature, with her thousand charms, 

Proclaim anew her God. 

—The New Era, April 13, 1901 



THE SOUL 

The brook flows on to the river, 
The river flows to the sea, 

And the great sea sings forever 
A wordless song to me. 



[64 



It sings of another ocean, 
It sings of a shoreless sea; 

No pause in its wild commotion, 
No peace for you and me. 

It sings, "I have no beginning;" 

It moans, " I have no end. 
In my boundless orbit I'm spinning. 

I ever tear and rend." 

The beautiful ships I swallow 

With their priceless human freight, 

And then I foam and bellow 
In measureless wrath and hate. 

Yea, look upon me and wonder, 

O, little son of man ! 
Yea, look and fear and ponder, 

Your life is but a span. 

And yet you bear within you, 

As fearless of control — 
I am a type of its untried sinew — 

The boundless human soul. 

It hath nor beginning nor ending, 
It knows nor peace nor rest, 

Forever tearing and rending 
The hapless human breast. 

It knows nor lord nor master. 
It brooks nor bridle nor rein. 

It brings but wreck and disaster 
And sorrow in its train. 

Only the Maker and Giver, 
The Lord of thee and thine 

Can still its wild tumult forever 
With the peace that is divine. 

[65] 



Then from here to the hereafter 

It blesses where it flows, 
And the sunshine of its laughter 

No note of warning" knows. 

So the brook flows down to the river 

And the river flows to the sea, 
And the human soul seeks ever 

The shores of eternit3^ 

-The New Era, Feb. U, 1903 



THANKSGIVING 

Your barns are full to o'erflowing, 

Your bins and your larders are stored, 

The harvest has trebled the sowing, 
O, come ye, give thanks to the Lord ! 

His blessing attended the growing, 
Then let Him preside at the board. 

Before His altar low kneeling 

Thank the Giver for all the good. 

How can you be hard and unfeeling, 
Ye thankless, unthinking brood. 

When a thousand brethren are reeling" 
For lack of their daily food? 

Come, heap on your groaning table 
The fruits of the garden and field. 

Bring forth from your cellar and stable 
The choicest that they can yield. 

Let the cornucopia of fable 
Be the sceptre that you wield. 

Go into the hedges and highways 

And bring in hither the poor. 
Yea, out of the alleys and highways 

[66 1 



And in through the wide open door. 
" Let the ways of mercy be thy ways," 
Thus commanded the Christ of yore. 

Then shall the voice of thanksgiving 
Mount on joyful wing- to the skies 

When the glad tongues of all the living 
Shall the Giver of good things prize, 

While the very air will be heaving 
With the smoke of the sacrifice. 

—Lititz Express, Nov., 23, 1900 



RETRIBUTION 

You prate of human brotherhood 

The while the cannon roar, 
And from the ground your brother's blood 

For vengeance crieth sore. 

Into the cannon's awful mouth 

The bread of men you feed, 
W^hile fever, famine, plague and drouth 

Your dying millions bleed. 

The measure of your bitter cup 

Is full unto the brim. 
Mother of nations, drink it up 

Before your eyes wax dim. 

And from your palsied hand they break, — 
Whose powers no more restrain, — 

The prostrate races in your wake 
That swell your conquering train. 

The long, dark list of Erin's woes, 

And trade's unwilling slaves, 
The opium victims' dire throes 

The drunkard's yawning graves. 

[67] 



Hast thoii no care for these, oh State, 

Grown large in wealth and greed? 
Once, too, old Rome was counted great, 

The Persian and the Mede. 

Ah, empires rise and empires fall, 

According to His word. 
His kingdom rises over all, 

His mandates must be heard. 

Thy prophets and thy priests are dumb, 

Thy children shed their blood — 
That Christian churches may find room 

Where heathen temples stood? — 

Ah no, that English pride may grow 

And English wealth increase. 
And English Jasons safe may go 

For Afric's golden fleece ! 

On history's pages read the tale 

How mighty Xerxes fell. 
The Boers can teach thee — do not fail 

To learn the lesson well. 

'Tis not too late to right the wrong, 

The bloody sword to sheathe ; 
Let peace succeed the funeral song, 

The ghastly feast of death. 

Lest where Britannia could unfurl 

From rise to set of sun 
Her banners fifty banners hurl 

Defiance to her one. 

—Lititz Express, Oct., 1901 



[ 68 ] 



MISSIONARY GRAVES 

On history's pages we have read 

Of many a bloody battle. 
Of men who oft like heroes bled 

And hordes that died like cattle. 

But yet of many a well-fought field 

We never ken the story, 
Of those who feared not life to yield 

For human souls — not glory. 

The red men of our forests knew 

The graves of pale-faced teachers 
And Amazonian verdure grew 

O'er fever victims' features. 

The snow-clad wastes of Labrador, 

Alaska's ice-bound waters 
And Greenland's bleak and barren shore 

Have hid our sons and daughters. 

'Mid Nicaragua's dark lagoons, 

Jamaica's sparkling fountains, 
'Mid Arctic nights and tropic noons, 

On Himalayan mountains. 

Upon the fatal Guinea coast, 

'Mid Hottentot and leper. 
Where great Nyanza's Lake is crossed, 

'Neath Southern Cross and Dipper, ' 

Where once the black man wandered wild 

In forests of Austrailia 
In terror of the Christian child 

They earned a king's regalia. 

And when the saved of many a land 

Shall rise when time is ended 
And call th^m blest on Christ's right hand 

Their work shall be commended. 

—The Little Missionary, April, l^OU 

[69] 



THE RIVER OF TIME ' 

O, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 

Away far back it began. 
It was born in the throes of a world sublime 

Before the birth of man. 



It was born when the light at the word of the Lord 

Spread o'er the formless void, 
It had grown full deep when again His word 

The infant world destroyed. 

The banks of the stream are jagged and steep, 

With ruins on either side, 
And the tombs where the great of the world lie asleep. 

Slain in their strength and pride. 

O, its waters are red with the blood of the slain 

And dark with the deeds of shame. 
For the lands it has laved left behind them their stain 

And gave it evil fame. 

There the headless gods of the heathen guard 

Their crumbled fane and shrine. 
And the mouldering castle keeps watch and ward 

O'er the despot's form supine. 

There the cities lie that were builded in blood. 

Their walls are leveled long, 
And where once contending armies stood 

Flows the river deep and strong. 

But sometimes the banks are fringed with flowers 

Sown by the good and wise, 
'Mid the mould of dungeons spring up fair bowers 

That breathe of Paradise. 

[ 70 ] 



And again the river is crystal clear 

Where right has left its mark, 
While l\arvests of gold on its banks far and near 

Brighten the prospect dark. 

O, a wonderful stream is the River of Time. 

It flows right on to God 
To be lost in the flood of that ocean sublime 

Whose shores by saints are trod. 

—Lancaster New Era, March 1, 1902 



THE BELLS OF LINDEN HALL 

Hear the wild, melodious clamors, 

Swinging of the iron hammers, 

Till the air is all a quiver, 

And the clambering ivies shiver 

Softly through their clinging tendrils outside on the tower 

wall! 
In the morning's dawning brightness. 
In the twilight's mystic lightness. 
In the noontide's quiet hour 
Bells are swinging in the tower. 
And the mellow brooding cadence holds the village in its 

thrall. 

In the springtide vernal tender, 

In the summer's golden splendor, 

In the autumn's hazy weather 

Hear the bells ring out together. 

In the winter they are muffled by the snowflakes like a 

pall. 
There the yellow sunlight dances. 
There the pallid moonlight glances 
On the clappers quickly gliding 
In and out through shadows hiding 
'Mid the dim and dark recesses of the tower square and 

tall. 

[/I] 



As the bells awake from slumber 

Stranger, can you tell their number? 

'Tis a trio, like the Graces, 

Charm is theirs of voice, not faces. 

Yielding to their mild persuasion school girls hasten at 
the call. 

All the liquid notes are blending 

In the web of school life, lending 

Threads of brightness that will linger 

In its history, like a finger 

Pointing out the pleasant places where the lights of mem- 
ory fall. 

Chiming forth the Christmas story, 

Sounding out the Easter glory. 

Sending loud the New Year greeting, 

All these festive scenes repeating 

In the coming years they'll echo, sweet bells sounding 

through it all. 
And the old girls, when returning 
To the dear scenes a yearning- 
Time itself and all its changes, 
Whereso'er the tired foot ranges, 
Ne'er effaces, listen fondly to the bells of Linden Hall. 

Linden Hall Echo, Oct., 1900 



THE CHAIN 

The old man Avrought in his shop alone 
Careful and well till the task was done, 
Better workmen were few or none. 

He was forging a chain with all his might. 
And every link must be made just right. 
For he did his work as in God's sight. 

Why need he work with infinite pain 
To make alike the links in the chain? 
So much time spent seemed wasted and vain. 



72] 



No one could see what the old man did, 
A flaw or weakness could well be hid. 
Who cared when he lay 'neath the coffin lid? 

The days went by and the chain was sold, 
Was laid away in a good ship's hold. 
And its use by most unguessed, untold. 

The years rolled on and the good ship passed 
Across the ocean so wide and vast. 
Not a cloud the calm sky overcast. 

There came a day when the breakers roared, 
O'er the slippery deck the waters poured. 
And the ship was doomed with all on board. 

The anchors were brought from the vessel's keep 

And one by one dropped into the deep. 

While the cruel waves seemed to laugh and leap. 

When the cables all snapped like rotten tow 
The big sheet anchor was brought from below 
To bear the brunt of the storm-king's blow. 

So the mighty chain a use had found. 
And coil after coil was now unwound, 
Like a leash to hold a struggling hound. 

The tempest at last had met its match, 

The mariners saw — they were on the watch — 

The chain had never a flaw nor scratch. 

The tempest died and the good ship lay 

At anchor safe in the quiet bay, 

For not a link of that chain gave w^ay. 

The man wrought better than e'er he knew^ 
As all men must who are good and true, 
And their work brings joy instead of rue. 

[73 1 



We all forge chains at our daily work. 

The links are weak when we dawdle and shirk. 

While the hidden flaws are sure to lurk. 

Our characters are the chains we make. 

Strong to bear or brittle to break 

In the strain of life when the passions wake. 

Let us live alway as in God's sight, 

Doing our best with our little might. 

His strength is ours when we work aright. 

— The Moravian, July 31, 1901 



THE REMINDER 

In ancient Egypt, we are told, 
'Twas custom that a mummy hold 
The place of honor at the feast. 
Thereby the cheer was scarce increased 
But each one thought that he must die 
While Death's grim form was sitting by, 
Nor dared to self-indulgence yield 
Lest his own doom thereby be sealed. 
Unseemly mirth and unkind jest 
IMethinks that presence had suppressed, 
While e'en the stoutest heart had quailed 
Lest in the sli^ghtest thing it failed. 
Sure virtue high and reason cool 
Alone at such a feast must rule. 
While trivial thoughts, words insincere 
At such a time dared not appear. 

Sometimes when youth and health are rife 

And riot in abundant life, 

With all the thoughts on pleasure bent, 

Deaf ears are to experience lent; 

Wisdom and age are pushed aside 

By the full sweep of folly's tide ; 



f74] 



Let a pale child of want and sin, 

With death enthroned on features thin 

Pass by and graver thoughts prevail, 

Counsels derided now avail, 

And visions of immortal birth 

Blot out the transient sigfhts of earth. 



'fe' 



'Tis well, frail children of the dust. 

To be reminded that we must 

Haste on our journey nor delay, 

Beguiled by folly on the way. 

For life is but a thoroughfare, 

A pilgrimage, and we must wear 

The palmer's garb and not the bells 

And trappings of the clown. He sells 

His birthright who sails down the stream 

Of life as in a pleasant dream 

The while the souls of men are lost. 

If pagan Egypt knew the cost 

And danger of forgetting death 

Much more should we, since Scripture saith 

We die to live forevermore 

In bliss or pain on yonder shore. 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, July 29, 1902 



A DIRGE 

Once again a patch of woodland falls beneath the wood- 
man's ax. 

Once again the birds are mourning desolation in their 
tracks. 

Once again a spot of beauty leaves the landscape nude 
and bare, 

And the shy blooms of the wildwood nevermore shall 
scent the air. 

One step nearer to the era when the drought shall rule the 
land 

[75] 



And our far-famed garden county rival Afric's wastes of 

sand. 
God made earth a thing of beauty, man, impelled by greed, 

or whim, 
Leaves where'er his footsteps wander wailing and the 

funeral hymn. 

Reason! Would you know the reason? Reason there 

is none, nor law, 
Save that hungry commerce gathers everything within its 

maw. 
From the monarch of the forest to the blossom of the dale. 
Robbing all we count worth having, all for barter and for 

sale. 

Shall we vainly plead for mercy? They who grind out 

children's blood 
Scarce would falter at the slaughter of a fragment of a 

wood. 
Yet you tell us this is progress ! Would we might be 

spared the same. 
When it is on ruins builded it is progress but in name. 

When the smoke and grime of factories blot out all that's 
fair and sweet, 

Wlien the sun's obscured in heaven and the grass beneath 
our feet 

We would call a halt on progress or ask only "Spare us 
these, 

For our vanished peace and quiet but a patch of green- 
wood trees." 

For the love of all that's lovely, for the sake of all that's 

best 
For our many-sided nature let us guard and save the rest, 
Lest a like fate come upon us such as Eastern annals 

show 
Of gaunt famine stalking hopeless where the forests are 

laid low\ 

[76] 



Do you wonder at my passion? Do you ask, "Why this 

ado 
'Bout a paltry strip of woodland where the trees are sparse 

and few?" 
It is only one of thousands and the ruin that is wrought 
By the ax past computation, reach of fancy or of thought. 

Yet if only bards and children missed the wood's recesses 

cool 
Ye dared not condemn my raving as the drivel of a fool. 
For it is to bards and children and to trees and flowers 

and birds 
That we owe our tenderest feelings deeper than the flow 

of words. 

Lititz Express, June 22, 1906 



THE POET'S THEME 

'Twas in the childhood of the race 

That warriors only found a place 

In singer's carol poet's song. 

For might was right and weakness wrong. 

Then men of Herculean mold, 

Alike in love and battle bold, 

'Neath Northern lights and Southern skies 

Were sung by scalds in epic wise, 

Or in Homeric numbers found 

High flowing praise of sonorous sound. 

No others worthy of renown. 

No others might the poet crown. 

When mankind reached its lusty youth 
'Twas love and war again, forsooth ! 
In battle, chase and tournament 
The flower of knighthood all was spent. 
The warrior fought for lady's hand. 
For God and castle, king and land, 
For honor, pleasure, vengeance, fee. 



// 



Christ's tomb from Paynim hold to free. 
The wandering minstrel sang the Avoes 
Of lovely dames and knightly foes, 
While milder arts could only dwell 
In cloistered hall and monkish cell. 

The race swung forward to its prime. 
What was the theme of poet's rhyme? 
The knight was gone and in his stead 
A tonsured monk was at the head. 
Through twilight dim he led the way 
To better and to brighter day. 
His arms a cross, his sword a Book, 
His clarion voice the nations shook. 
Ere that a man of peace went forth 
And found for men a wider berth. 
While many a wonder too was wrought 
By winged minds in realms of thought. 
What then? The fruit was war alone. 
Ere lon^ the warriors on the throne, 
He fought for freedom and for right, 
And poets sang the warrior's might. 

What shall the poet now rehearse 

In garlands of immortal verse? 

The theme, methinks, has lost no charms, 

And still he pictures war's alarms. 

And love again he can but choose 

When catering to the fickle muse. 

Yet Launcelot now and Guinevere 

No more in poet's dream appear, 

As little as the Titan throng 

That sported in Homeric song. 

Our knightly type is Galahad 

In purity, like armor, clad — 

The dragon Sin, where'er he sees, 

He combats, knowing rest nor ease — 

Our type of love is Una fair, 

The spotless maid. A goodly pair! 

Where'er they go they plant the rose 



'Mid desert tracks of Arctic snows. 
A brio^hter Eden smiles afar 
Led by the gleam of Bethlehem's star. 
What better theme can poet sing? 
What better wares to market bring? 
From childhood down to doting age 
What do we read on history's page? 
The poet cannot mould the race 
But hold the mirror to its face. 
Should the reflection fairer be 
Than in time past we're wont to see 
The mirror's faithful — say no more — 
Then laud the age the which him bore. 

— Lancaster New Era, April 12, 1902 

THE MODERN DRAGON 

There were dragons and giants in days of old 

But they are here no more, 
Yet the Trust, we are told, is as fierce and bold. 

And he crushes king and boor. 
He sits entrenched in mine and in mill, 

He owns the land and_ the sea, 
And he chalks down a line where men may walk 

In this country of the free. 
And he cries, *T am lord of all I survey, 

Human and fowl and brute. 
There was never a man of woman born 

Who dares my right to dispute." 

The cattle upon a thousand hills. 

King Trust, he owns them now, 
And each heart thrills at the butcher's bills 

And darker grows each brow. 
He owns the flour, he sells the bread, 

H^e peddles the milk in the street. 
He's got his finger in every pie 

That a man may choose to eat. 

[79] 



He sands the sugar and colors the tea 

And butters the oleo, 
And then he gloats o'er his handiwork 

And up the prices go ! 

The ogres in the fairy tales 

In ages that were dark 
Left grewsome trails of bones and nails 

Their bloody feasts to mark. 
Our ogre leaves no warning sign 

That any man can tell 
That he's in reach of the ogre's claw 

And may mark his footing well. 
What does it matter? We all get there, 

So be it soon or late. 
There's no escape from the ogre's maw. 

'Tis so decreed by fate. 

'Tis many a day that we are owned 

By King Trust and his godless crew. 
We have sighed and groaned and wept and moaned, 

And we know not what to do. 
We left him go when he was young, 

Now he has grown so tall 
That soon he'll own each blessed thing 

On this terrestrial ball. 
He's girding all the land with steel 

And all the sea with steam, 
And liberty will soon become 

A vain and idle dream. 

O, where is the knight that will slay the Trust, 

The dragon so fierce and grim? 
This man, he must be both pure and just 

And armed in every limb. 
O, men shall laud him near and far, 

With laurel he'll be crowned. 
And his name in tale and song shall live 

The whole wide world around. 
And we'll cry: "Hurrah for the goodliest knight 

[80] 



That ever has wielded sword, 
For he has slain our strongest foe, 
Our tyrant once and lord ! " 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, August 19, 1902 



THE SERVANT IS NOT GREATER THAN HIS 

LORD 

I thought, as in the Book I read. 
The seers and prophets all are dead 
And how then shall the race be led? 

All dead, indeed, can it be so? 
All history loudly answers. No! 
Its prophets every age must know. 

'Tis not alone God's chosen race 

That claims all rights of time and place. 

They only set the world the pace. 

We have our seers and prophets now 
With pierced feet and thorn-crowned brow. 
Whose claims the world will not allow. 

The men who bear for conscience' sake. 
Who, while men sleep, must toil and wake, 
Refuse the good that others take. 

The men who fast while others feast. 
Who smooth life's way for man and beast, 
Nor e'er neglect God's very least. 

They follow where the Master trod. 
Homeless, like Him, and poorly shod, 
The surest way that leads to God. 

They're scorned, as were the seers of old, 
They bear oppressions manifold, 
E'en hunger, nakedness and cold. 

[8il 



Like to the fathers of one mind, 
We to their mission oft are blind 
Until the g^rand result we find. 



fe' 



From Moses down to saintly Paul, 
From Huss to Luther, Sumner, all, 
They drink the wormwood and the gall. 

Yea, all around in very deed 

Behold them suffer, see them bleed ! 

And yet the world gives little heed. 

They are the handful, strong and free, 
A cringing world will never see 
To Belial bend the coward knee. 

'Tis they who dare all wrong to shun, 
'Tis they who dare to stand alone. 
If only to be spit upon ! 

E'en now the mass its hard palm paints 
With the warm blood of martyred saints, 
The while the godly spirit faints. 

And still the mob will not be led, 

'Twill rather crucify instead. 

The living jeer and crown the dead. 

—Lititz Express. Feb. 21, 1901 



THE CZAR 

Who, craven-like, fled from the terrible city? 
Who felt for the people compassion nor pity? 
Who hid in his palace safe and far? 
Who was it? What think ye? The noble Czar! 

W^ho is weighed in the balance and now found wanting? 
Who is reaping the harvest of his own planting? 
Who is feeling the pangs that despots are 
Alone with his conscience? The mighty Czar ! 

[ 82 ] 



Who has trodden for years a nation under? 

Who answers with sword and with cannons' thunder 

When to ask for their rights a people dare? 

The gentle, peace-loving, the Christian Czar ! 

Who is living in fear of his noble head's falling? 
W^ho must hear in his dreams the cries most appalling 
That rise from prisons and shambles of war, 
The curses that light on the fatherly Czar? 

Who is heir of vast lands and dominions unbounded? 
Who rules o'er an empire by wiser men founded? 
Who is caged like a prisoner behind the bar? 
Who is harried and hated? The terrible Czar ! 

Who is clothed with great power but by nature unfitted? 
Who must answer for sins by others committed? 
Who was born in the light of an evil star? 
The puny, the weakling, the pitiful Czar ! 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 3, 1905 



THE VOICES OF THE SPRINGTIDE 

Plenteous is the summer's glory. 

Wealth of flower and fruit and tree. 
Fair is harvest's golden story, 

Autumn's sun-dyed tapestry. 
But the sweetest charm of Springtide 

Has departed from the land 
When the birds have ceased to sing. Wide 

Silence reigns on every hand. 

Ah, the winter's long and surly 
When the feathered tribe is still, 

But the Springtide brings them early, 

Though March winds blow fierce and chill, 

While the tearful April quivers 
With a joy but half confessed 

[83] 



When a voice aerial shivers 
With the transport in its breast. 

Comes then May, the winsome maiden, 

Laughs the wood, the garden, field, 
Laughs mankind to see her laden 

With all beauty earth can yield. 
Never artist lived, musician 

That such forms could paint, or wake 
Sounds so varied and Elysian 

From the chords of human make. 

When the sky is full of sunshine 

And the earth is paved with green, 
And all Nature's drunk the run wine 

That has glorified her mien 
There's a harp in every bush and 

There's a lute on every limb. 
While the woodland is a full band 

Playing one thanksgiving hymn. 

It is then we miss them sorest 

When the summer's flame burns dull, 
For the silent autumn forest 

Of the wind is only full. 
Ah, a myriad foreign voices 

In the world cannot atone 
To the spirit that rejoices 

No more when the birds are flown. 

Yea the summer time is glorious 

With its store of shade and bloom, 
But we miss the choirs uproarious 

That retire to leafy gloom. 
Ah, the autumn's bearded splendor. 

How we revel in its cheer! 
But we mourn the lyrists tender 

Of the Springtime of the year. 

Thus our lives may be o'erflowing 
In our manhood, in our prime, 

[84] 



And e'en age may pass unknowing 
The unkindest cuts of time, 

Yet our childhood's careless songtime 
And our youth's love-laden strain 

We will miss and mourn a long time 
With a deep but useless pain. 



Lancaster New Era, July 17, 1903 



THE BIRTH OF CHRIST 

Hark, the bells up in the steeple 
Tell to all the listening people 
That the day by prophets wanted, 
That the day by poets chanted, 
That the patriarchs long pondered 
As in darkness oft they wandered. 
Now has dawned upon the earth. 

Ah, it is a day of mystery 
That has changed the face of history, 
That dim Hades once set quaking, 
Jove upon his throne left shaking. 
Drove old Thor into his wildwood, 
And fore'er enthroned sweet childhood, 
Day of the Messiah's birth! 

Twenty centuries have vanished 
Since the old faiths have been banished 
To the limbo of dead fable. 
And the sinless One is able 
To hold sway with reign unbroken 
Where the angels' words are spoken. 
All the world proclaims His worth. 

Let us, too, then do Him honor. 
Him of all good gifts the donor. 
Let the souls whom sin enslaveth 
Bring repentance that He craveth, 

[8s] 



And our hearts and doors wide flinging, 
Let the melody of singing 

Rise from every home and hearth. 

Him, who loosed for aye the portal 
Leading to the life immortal, 
Him who stands our Mediator, 
Friend and Brother, as Creator, 
Who shall reign when time is ended 
Now adore on knees low bended. 

Reverence give that knows no dearth. 

Since He came with richest blessing 
Let us share of our possessing 
With the poor, the sick, the humble, 
Let us lift the ones that stumble, 
Let us serve men with the sweetness 
That shall crown with full completeness 
Day of our Redeemer's birth. 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, Dec. 21, WOIt 



THE ARMY OF BREAD WINNERS 

All over the world's broad highways 

Wherever we go we meet, 
A3^e passing and repassing. 

The tread of the million feet. 

They are going forth in the morning, 
They are coming back at night. 

And often the tread is heavy. 
And often the purse is light. 

'Tis not an army with banners. 
They carry no sword nor gun, 

Yet they fight from dawn to darkness 
And the battle is never done. 



86 



There are old men, there are children, 
There are maidens sweet and pure, 

There are matrons worn and anguished. 
There are men made to endure. 

There are some go forth with laughter, 
There are some go forth with tears, 

Some greet the conflict with pleasure, 
And some with groans and fears. 

Though many fall by the wayside 

The numbers ne'er decrease ; 
While the human heart is beating 

The body finds no release. 

There are heroes, there are martyrs, 

There are cowards in the fray; 
Some battle alone in the darkness. 

Some faint in the broadest day. 

They fight the wolves of Hunger 

And the demon of Despair, 
They hunt the giant Poverty 

And beard him in his lair. 

'Tis the army of bread winners, 

And they fight for very life. 
The ground with their blood is fertile. 

They buy our peace with their strife. 

They win our bloodless victories. 
They sow our fields with grain, 

They run our mills and factories. 
They plow the stormy main. 

While the smoke of farm and village 
Have marked the ruinous track 

Of the world's victorious armies 

That brought naught but ruth and wrack 

[87] 



We find only peace and plenty 

Where this mighty host is seen. 
Men bless their unending progress 

And keep their memory green. 

No standing army is needed, 

No dynamite nor guns, 
Before a host so powerful 

There's never a foe but runs. 

But woe to the land whose soldiers 

Can wield no tool but a sword. 
And whose homes are at the mercy 

Of a devastating horde ! 

Yea, the army of bread winners. 

Our strength it is and shield, 
For the yard and last and harrow 

Are the weapons they can wield. 

They keep at bay gaunt famine. 

Dishonor and loss and shame. 
And in the march of the nations 

They win a conquering name. 

—The New Era, August H, 1902 



JUDGE NOT 

Be show in judging lest you should 

In others but yourself condemn; 
Be zealous still to find the good. 

The blackest mud may hide a gem. 

Be slow to blame the hypocrite. 

What if his face be long and sour. 
The while that you in judgment sit 

Your own faults grow in strength and power. 

One little fault may thrive and grow 
Until it rules the very man, 

[88] 



While virtue ever grow^eth slow, 
To giant evil but a span. 

Some little good is always found 
In men, however vile they be, 

And many petty faults abound 
In saints of heavenly purity. 

The wisest man may act the fool, 
The greatest fool a sage appear. 

And all the learning of the school 

Experience oft proves worthless gear. 

The child may sometimes teach the sage. 
Experience bend to innocence. 

And all the trappings of the age 
Be less of wisdom than pretense. 

Oft outward joy hides inward care 
And outward wrinkles inward peace, 

The clown who dances at the fair 
May inly pray for prompt release. 

Who heaps up gold oft bids farewell 
To conscience clear and slumbers light 

The guards that in a palace dwell 
Are darksome spirits of the night. 

Wealth is not wisdom, nor are brains 
Confined to cottage walls alone, 

The intellect a monarch reigns 
Unbound by walls of sod or stone. 

Then treat all men with equal cheer, 
Be courteous, pitiful and kind. 

For all are brethren far and near. 
Our needs us all together bind. 

We have one Father and we kneel 
Before one common mercy seat, 

[89 ] 



Before one Eye we all must feel 

That we are nought, our lives a cheat. 

Then do not judge, for we are all 

Already judged by Him who made 
Us human atoms, great and small ; 

We're hourly in His balance weighed. 

—Lititz Express, Jan. 17, 1902 



MEMORIES 

We were walking out together in the hazy autumn 

weather, 
Speaking of the friends beloved in the days of long ago. 
Some had moved to other places strange to us and left 

no traces 
That enabled us to follow and their present welfare know. 

Others living right around us strange had grown and 
stranger found us 

Till we scarcely knew each other as we met upon the 
street. 

But by far the greater number slept the long and dream- 
less slumber 

In the low and narrow mansions of the graveyard's still 
retreat. 

Cautiously we trod and slowly hushed our voices, for a 

holy 
Atmosphere seemed brooding over our pathway as we 

went, 
While the dry leaves had a dreary rustle that scarce made 

us cheery, 
And the very air seemed vocal with a half suppressed 

lament. 

Schoolmates who had sat beside us, nought, we thought 

then, could divide us. 
Since had passed beyond the river while our eyes were 

dim with tears ; 

[90] 



Later comrades of an hour — how they haunt us with 

strange power ! — 
Laughter that was drowned in sorrow, phantom jests 

rang in our ears. 

Neighbors, kinsmen, all had vanished, ruthlessly by time 

wxre banished 
From the living, acting present to the chambers of the 

past. 
Here their places no more knew them and our thoughts 

alone pursue them 
To that region of the shadows, halls of memory dim and 

vast. 

There was Kittie, light and airy, like her namesake, and 

contrary, 
But at times so wondrous solemn with her large and 

liquid eyes ; 
There was Anna, slow and steady, with her smile so 

quick and ready, 
And her heart as full of sunshine as her head was calm 

and wise. 

One had died a wife and mother, useful and beloved the 

other 
Left a host of mourning kindred and a busy world behind. 
There was Charlie, merry fellow, with his songs, his jokes 

and 'cello; 
In his bright auspicious spring time his young manhood's 

sun declined. 

There was Susie, plump and jolly, blue-eyed Etta, gentle 

Mollie, 
How they seem to crowd around us as their features we 

recall ! 
There w^as Willie, naughty, clever, there was Minnie, 

laughing ever, 
There was Laura, dark and handsome, graceful, dignified 

and tall. 

[ 91 ] 



One by one we look them over, like old portraits 'neath 

the cover 
Of an album, and we wonder as we find the list increase, 
Whether we two are the only living ones that wander 

lonely 
In the now deserted chambers where the dear dead rest in 

peace, 

And we pray that no sad changes e'er may sever or 

estrange us 
While we bide within the borders of the land of living 

men, 
And the fall wind's mournful sighing whispers assent 

while we're trying 
In our hearts to sign a covenant needing neither ink nor 

pen. 

Linden Hall Echo, Nov., 1900 



THE PARTRIDGE 

The serpentine road wound up the hill 

And down on the other side. 
The evening lay brooding calm and still 

O'er the landscape far and wide, 
The birds were cuddling down to their rest 

With a chirp and trill and song. 
And the sun had painted the gorgeous WcvSt 

With colors that lingered long. 

When close at my side I heard a sound, 

A liquid, persuasive note 
That seemed to rise from the dewy ground 

From an almost human throat. 
As I tried to follow where it led, 

By the coaxing accents drawn, 
It seemed below and again overhead, 

And anon the voice was gone. 

[92] 



Through wooded lanes where the hedge rose grew, 

Through tangles of weed and vine 
I followed in vain the haunting clew, 

Unaided by token or sign. 
Past fields of wheat just turning to gold, 

Which the sun to life had called. 
Corn field and clover with wealth untold 

In crimson and emerald. 

I gave up the useless chase at last. 

Slow taking my homeward way. 
In a jubilant tone the words were cast 

From close behind, I should say. 
Sure 'twas a phantom that high and clear 

Called out three words, only three, 
'Twas "Ah Bob White ! " Now wasn't it queer 

What the phantom called after me? 

I've heard it since and full many a time 

And chased it often in vain, 
For whether I walk or creep or climb 

To give up the quest I am fain. 
I hear it near and I hear it far, 

Its dulcet and ghostly call 
Evanescent as a falling star. 

Say, is it a voice at all? 

The lover that seeks his vanished bride. 

The youth that woos phantom fame, 
The sage that toils for the lore denied 

Or finds it an empty name, 
The dotard that mourns his long lost youth. 

The mother that wails her child : 
I must be of kin, to these, in truth. 

By a haunting voice beguiled. 

— The Intelligencer, June H, 1902 



[93] 



AT THE WINDOW 

Before her window sits alone 

Within her cozy room and still 
A woman frail whose youth is gone. 

Her arm is resting on the sill, 
Her face is calm that once, was fair, 
Now marked by lines of pain and care. 

Her work lies idly in her lap, 

Her eyes are out upon the sea, 
Her thoughts, I do not know — mayhap 

She would not tell us where they be. 
Two potted plants with scarlet bloom 
Have filled with cheer the tiny room. 

The scarlet bloom, the little cot 

Have vanished from her dreamy eye, 

The present, ah, she sees it not. 

Her dreams are all of days gone by. 

Her eyes are out upon the waves 

Because they hold two cherished graves. 

The ships go out and ships come in 
The while the long years come and go. 

But neither 'mid the breakers' din 

Nor where the waves like glass would show 

Is heard or seen one ship that passed 

One day across the ocean vast. 

Upon the far horizon's rim 

There rests upon that sea an isle. 

And she can see the light house gleam 
At night with an illusive smile. 

It did not lead her ship aright 

Upon one dark and fateful night. 

And so she dreams upon the shore 

Of that vast, wide and treacherous deep, 
For she can leave it nevermore 



94 



Since her beloved lie asleep 
Beneath its calm and sunlit face 
Clasped in its last and long embrace. 

Her face has caught the placid look 

Of 3^onder sea she knows so well, 
But, like that sea, of storms that shook 

Her inmost soul, its lines can tell. 
Yet now God's sunbeams on it rest 
As oft upon the ocean's breast. 

— Lancaster Intelligencer, June. 23, 1905 



LIKE LITTLE CHILDREN 

Jesus called little children to come unto him and said, " SuflFer little children to come 
unto me and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of God, Verily I say unto 
you. Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise 
enter therein." — L,uke 18:16, 17. 

Why trouble ye the Master? 

Why trouble Him indeed 
By splitting hairs of doctrine 

And tithing anise seed? 
Why tire the patient Master 

With bickerings of a child, 
Ye hoary-headed sages 

Whose hearts are so defiled? 

The Master long is weary 

Of loveless sacrifice. 
Your bullocks are all tainted. 

Your incense will not rise, 
For know your prayers are weighted 

With widows' and orphans' tears. 
They fall to earth unheeded 

Nor reach the Father's ears. 

Ye are cruel, hard, ungentle. 

And filled with vain conceit, 
Pollute His holy temple 

With barter of the street, 

[95] 



Ye wrangle, hate and envy 

Until the sky is black 
With smoke of wars and carnage. 

Stand back, I say, stand back ! 

Ye come to the gentle Jesus 

With hands stained red with crime, 
On ladders built of mockeries 

Ye would to heaven climb. 
Stand back, whited sepulchers, 

And let the children come. 
Before their faith so simple 

Ye stand condemned and dumb. 

'Tis love alone and kindness, 

Only the pure in heart ' 
That in the many mansions 

Up yonder shall have part. 
And know ye not the children 

Bring all the things ye lack? 
Stand back ye hoary sinners. 

Stand back, I say, stand back! 

— The Little Missionary, Nov., 1903 



TOO LATE 

Suppose Love came not with the Springtide flowers 
But when the frost had broidered all the pane, 

L'd say, "Why didst thou waste the sunny hours? 
Thy coming now is but in vain ! " 

Suppose Fame came not when the heart beat high 
With hope and all life's powers were at the full, 

I'd say, 'Tn age thou mayest pass me by. 
Mine eyes are dim, mine ears are dull." 

Suppose cold poverty and carking care 

Drained my life's blood in youth and manhood's prime, 
Thinkst thou that I should smile to fall late heir 

To wealth when past the joys of time? 



[96 



Suppose I stood alone when most in need 

Of friendly hands to raise me up, once more 

Why should 1 care for hosts of friends or heed 
When I am near the other shore? 

There's time for all things and that time is now. 

Love, learn, strive, act by day, the night's at hand 
When no man can turn back his life boat's prow 

Moored fast on the eternal strand. 

—Linden Hall Echo, Feb., 1903 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIR 

The old clock stands where it has stood 
For a hundred years and more, 

And many a tale could it tell, if it would, 
Of days that have gone before, 

Of maidens that tripped demure and shy 

To their duties here and there, 
And the old and feeble that hobbled by 

Upon the wide, old stair. 

When the plain Moravian sisters dwelt 

In the quaint stone pile of old 
The clock was there, for the house was built 

For the sisters, we are told. 

And the first ones came across the sea, 
But the clock, whence did it come? 

Ah, no one knows, but it seems to me 
That it came from a German home. 

They were sweet and good, those sisters all. 
In their modest caps and gowns, 

And they greeted the clock so straight and tal 
With smiles, I am sure, not frowns. 



97 



They were busy too, those sisters sweet, 

And they kept the old halls clean, 
While the big clock watched their active feet. 

And they cared not that they were seen. 

But then there followed a younger crew 

Of school maids frisky and bright, 
And they bore the sisters, grown old and few. 

To the graveyard on the height. 

The old halls rang with laughter and song, 

As they ring to this very day. 
And the dancing feet of the merry throng 

As they pass to study or play. 

But the old clock stands in the same old place 

As long ago it stood, 
And the old girls love its familiar face, 

For it helped them to be good. 

It preaches the same old sermon still 

To others year by year. 
And never a girl has taken it ill 

But holds the preacher dear. 

—Linden Hall Echo, May, 190^ 



OLD FASHIONED 

Oh yes, I know, it is out of date 

To believe the Bible today, 
And the higher critics quibble and prate 

And lead all the world astray. 
But the dear old Bible my fathers read 

Will do just as well for .me, , 
And the lamp by which their feet were led. 

By its light I too may see. 

O yes, of course, it is out of style 
To believe in hell. That is so. 



[98 



But then, I think, it is scarce worth while 
^ To argue with fools you know ! 
For everywhere is the mark of the beast, 

And the veriest child can tell 
That the lists of crime have not decreased 

Since the people will jest with hell. 

You may rave of Buddha and Mahomet, 

And of isms and fads galore, 
But the light of the Gospel will quench them yet, 

For the Christ is at the door. 
There is many a gem, I do ,not doubt 

In the books from which you cite, 
But we can easily do without 

It they're only almost right. 

There is but one book that I w^ould choose 

To teach me the way to die. 
It's the good old Book that you abuse 

When the sun of your life rides high. 
There is only one Book to which I turn 

When sorrow and care oppress, 
There is only one Book for which men yearn, 

But one that can heal and bless. 

Then since, after all, it has stood the test 

Of time and men's use so long 
To let it alone might still be best. 

Ye critics so wise and strong! 
It is but a cowardly game, forsooth. 

To destroy the faith of the child. 
And he who would measure arms with Truth, 

Like her, must be undefiled. 

- The New Era, April 18, 1905 

LOfa 



99 



SHADOWS 

There's a vacant seat at the table 

And a voice I love is still. 
There's a shadow gaunt and sable 

That has stalked across my sill. 
It lingers with me by night and by day. 
And nevermore can I drive it away. 

There's a vacant chair at the ta1)le 

Of my neighbor across the street. 
And she clothes her body in sable, 

An ebony winding sheet. 
She weeps by herself by night and by day 
'Neath the shadow she will not drive away. 

There are vacant seats at the tables 

Around me on every side. 
And the mourning garments and sables 

God's sunlight darken or hide. 
They glide through our homes by night and by day, 
And love and sweet peace are driven away. 

Thank God for that seat at the table. 

Thank God for that vacant place ! 
(But alas for the mournful sable 

That shadows your path and face !) 
An angel awaits your coming some day. 
Look up, sad soul, chase the shadow away ! 

— The Moravian, March 25, 190S 



THE JUDGMENT 

I dreamed one night that I was dead 
And friends of mine not few. 

Before the vast tribunal dread 
Were many that I knew. 

Jehovah on his awful throne 
Sat there with dreadful mien, 

[ lOO] 



The Christ as Advocate was known. 
The culprits ranged between. 

\\'hile there amid that guilty crowd 

I took my rightful place 
Before my fierce accusers loud 

I hid my blushing face. 

What accusations do I hear? 

What fearful clamors greet 
And fall upon my listening ear 

Prone at the judge's feet. 

The words I cannot comprehend. 

I hear a caravan 
Without beginning without end. 

But not a single man ! 

^^^ith wonder do I raise my head 

And see a fearful sight 
Of starving horses, dogs ill fed, 

J\Iad with abuse and fright. 

Creatures of every class and kind 

Ill-used by cruel men, 
From mourning bird to suffering hind, 

From forest, field and pen. 

There was the toad I stoned for fun. 

The bird I shot for game. 
The pig I raced one day and won, 

The horse I rode till lame. 

There was the cow I cruelly beat, 
]\Iy neighbors crippled cat. 

The aigrettes and the song birds sweet 
Upon my wife's new hat. 

These sins unto the very least 
They sank me down to hell. 

The voice of every suffering beast 
Sounded mv soul's last knell. 



lOI 



I turned me from the fearful scene 
And stopped my tingling ears. 

It hid Jehovah's dreadful mien 
And Jesu's pitying tears. 

The very ocean could not drown 
This horrid din and roar. 
O, could eternity atone 

These crimes forevermore? 

I woke and time cannot efface 
This lesson from my mind. 

I read in each dumb, pleading face : 
" Be kind ! Be kind ! Be kind ! " 



Lititz Express, Sept. 28, 1900 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 

Another year has passed away 

With the solemn midnight chime, 

Another corse we sadly lay 
In the catacombs of Time. 

What did he bring this gaunt Old Year, 
Who now hath breathed his last? 

What mighty columns did he rear 
In the Temple of the Past? 

Did he but bring his share of pain 
The world's woe to increase, 

Or did he nearer bring the reign 
Of the Thousand Years of Peace? 

There's blood upon his garment's hem, 

All spotless once and fair; 
The smoke of battle clings to them. 

The mark that Cain bare. 

Past him they file in dread array, 

The brave, the fair, the young, the old, 

[ 102] 



The souls of those he helped to slay, 
As beads on rosary told. 

The volume of his life is read, 

Twelve chapters grave and gay; 
By them we judged the pallid dead 

As in his shroud he lay. 

Old Year, I scarce could bear to see 

Thee lying on thy bier, 
For with thee went a part of me. 

My past lies buried there. 

With thee there went full many a heart 

Into the silent tomb. 
How couldst, how darest thou depart, 

Sad angel of our doom? 

Full freighted thou with hopes and fears 

As ships to sea that go. 
Thou liest down beside thy peers. 

Our lives go with thee too. 

Then as we toll, Old Year thy knell, 

Full many knells are tolled. 
How many Time alone can tell. 

For Time is growing old. 

But through the caverns of the tomb 

There gleams a light from far, 
Piercing the depths of that vast gloom, 

The light of Bethlehem's star. 

Like Jacob's ladder, on its rounds 

To heaven men have climbed. 
And over graves and grassy mounds 

The peals of joy have chimed. 

Ah ! then, Old Year, we dare not weep 

That thy last task is done 
Since through death's long and dreamless sleep 

The heights of heaven are won. « 

— The Moravian, December, 1899 

{ 103 1 



THE COST 

An artist lived in days of eld. 

And he, 'tis said, had formed a plan 

To paint a picture to be unexcelled 
By any work of man. 

A ruddy color he would use, 

Though life itself should be the price ; 
The same no artist e'er again should choose, 

Too great the sacrifice. 

The colors grew beneath his hand. 

But as they grew his color fled ; 
The picture spread his fame through all the land. 

Too late. The man was dead. 

And now the riddle men could read, 

The secret of that pigment rare ; 
The artist shed his blood in very deed 

Its lustre to prepare. 

There is a picture age can't dim; 

Its like we'll never see again. 
Upon a cross which forms its background grim 

One shed his blood for men. 

We all are artists, small or great. 

Upon life's canvas we must paint, 
And still the color must decide the fate 

Of sinner or of saint. 

We dip the brush in red life-blood, 

We paint with heart and hand and brain. 

If the dark shade of sin crowd out the good 
Bright hues the work is vain. 

In the white splendor of that light 

That shines around the judgment throne 

The evil hues must fade away from sight, 
The good remain alone. 

[ 104 ] 



The faded daub the Master takes 

And with his blood-dipped brush divine 

The palHd forms to Hving lustre wakes 
Fit for the heavenly shrine. 

— The Lutheran Observer, March 1, 1901 



CHESTNUTTING 

Sauntering slow by the noisy old mill, 
Crossing stones o'er the chattering brook, 

Clambering over the side^ of the hill, 

See the gay children, how happy they look ! 

Nestling in leaves in the hollow deep piled. 
Peeping from burrs like a fort spiked around, 

Sought for with shouting and joy undefiled. 
Glossy brown nuts in their coverts are found. 

Deep in the search for the harvests untold 

Treasures unnumbered besides are not missed. 

Purple of. daises and primroses' gold 

Growing sequestered, by sunbeams unkissed, 

Bunches of bright scarlet berries concealed, 
Patches of moss, green and soft to the feet, 

Fern tufts, and scampering forms half revealed, 
Glimpses of rabbits and squirrels so fleet. 

Flaming red bushes reminding of one 

Tending the sheep on the hills long ago. 

Trees turning orange and gold in the sun, 
Filling the woods with a soft amber glow. 

High o'er the laughter and chat of the girls. 
Deep 'mid the shouts of the boys they can hear 

Rising and falling, as crested wave curls, 
Tones of the wind in the trees far and near. 

Mournful the music it plays 'mid the leaves, 
Merry it sounds to their innocent ears, 

L 105 ] 



Blowing- the locks in their faces it gives 
Matter for laughter but never for tears. 

Homeward at last w4th the sun they are going, 
Bearing the spoils of a day in the wood, 

]\Iemories and bags with delights overflowing 
That must be tasted to be understood. 

—Lititz Express, Nov. 2, 1900 



THE CURSE OF THE AGES 

All along the Yalu River, 

By the Rappahannock's side. 

Where the blue Rhine mingles ever 
Waters with the Northern tide, 

There the bones of men lay whitening 
Since old Time his march began. 

There the wrath of man in lightning 
Fierce descended upon man. 

Age on age in lore grows richer. 
Race on race grows great and dies, 

But the scholar than the ditcher 
In some things is not more wise. 

Egypt treads the nations under, 

So in turn, old Babylon, 
Persia reigns with blood and thunder 

Till suppressed by Macedon. 

Greece lies crushed anon and bleeding 
'Neath the conqueror's iron heel. 

For the Roman power is leading 
By the force of brand and steel. 

Centuries pass, the monster's lying- 
in the throes of death at last 

While a dozen States are vying 
For dominion still more vast. 

[ io6 ] 



Though the scourge of Europe's pining 

On his island all alone. 
Price of blood is not declining, 

Widows still and orphans moan. 

Scarce her borders hath extended 

Britain by the gun and sword 
Ere great Russia condescended 

To embroil the Mongol horde. 

Everywhere men's blood is flowing. 

Fertile is the soil of earth, 
And the golden grain is growing 

Over grave and ruined hearth. 

Brethren, stop and hear the preaching 

Of the Christ who came to stay 
War and bloodshed. Yea, His teaching 

Ye do shame until this day! 

For, like cattle to the shambles, 

Battle-field and prison pen, 
Men are driven. Mammon gambles 

With the flesh and blood of men. 

Cease this farce or cease the sending 

Of the Gospel. Men are fed 
But on husks the while you're spending 

Human lives for daily bread. 

Now the blessed morn draws nigher 
When the Christmas bells will ring. 

Hush your cannon that the choir 
Of the angels sweet may sing. 

—Lancaster New Era, Decemder 12, 190 Jt 



FAITH 

At early dawn a robin sang, 
Her song all day was ringing, 

And when the evening twilight closed 
That robin still was singing. 



107 



The day was fair, I did not dare 

At such sweet joy to wonder. 
Next day was drear, it rained and there 

Was Hghtning too, and thunder. 

Above the patter on the roof, 

Above the gutter's pouring-. 
Between the Hghtning's fitful flash, 

Between the thunder's roaring 

' I heard that robin's cheery note. 

With sweet persistence trilHng 
She almost split her little throat 
To seek the tempest's stilling. 

Through sun and shower, cloud and storm. 

No trouble e'er divining. 
That cheery bird sang on and on 

To shame the soul's repining. 

Would, like that bird, my heart could sing 
Through joy and pain and sorrow, 

Nor ever life's bright present cloud 
With phantoms of the morrow. 

W^ould, like that bird's, my faith would shine 

With brightness never failing- 
Till I beheld Him face to face 

And met Him without quailing. 

— The Moravian, July, 1899 



DAME NATURE'S FEAST 

The air is full of a wonderful life. 

Tender and buoyant and sweet ; 
It is seen in the trees, which are swelling with pride 
And a beauty as pure as the blush of a bride. 

And the blossoms at our feet. 

The grass is spangled with purple and gold, 
As if stars had dropped from the sky 

[ io8 1 



And had taken root in the brooding earth, 
Changed their sapphire nest for a lower berth 
But, like mortals, to wither and die. 

The willows are rustling their tasseled trains, 

Like fair ladies in festive array, 
The maples are clothed in the brightest of green. 
And the larch, no fairer was ever seen 

At the banquet of bonnie May. 

While the brooklet hurries along his course 

He scolds with the pebbles that fret. 
He must be at the feast. There's no time to be lost. 
And there's many a stock and stone to be crossed, 

So he's almost in a pet. 

There's a shimmer and flash of a ruddy breast. 

There's a whirr of an azure wing. 
There's a quiver and flutter, an amorous trill 
From fence and from tree, from bush and from sill 

Where the sweet feathered choristers sing. 

But below in the pool there is wild unrest 

And the fiddlers are out of tune. 
They are practicing in the bull frog's school. 
When the birds are at rest and the air is cool 

They will play by the light of the moon. 

So the feast is ready Dame Nature has spread. 

Then hither come one, come all. 
There is fragrance and beauty and warmth and light, 
There is innocent mirth and the purest delight, 

And none will be left unfed. 

There is naught that is asked but a seeing eye 

And an ear that is open to hear. 
And a heart like the heart of a little child 
As open to joy and as undefiled. 

To the Kingdom of God as near. 

— Lancaster New Era, May 11, 1901 
{ loy ] 



THE BUTTERFLY 

A golden winged butterfly 

Sits poising on a flower, 
It revels in the sunny sky, 

The gladness of the hour. 

It has no thought of good or ill. 

It has no thought of sorrow, 
It carps not at its Maker's will. 

It fears not for the morrow. 

O butterfly with golden wings 

That only joys in being, 
To thee false Future never brings 

Visions of bliss aye fleeing. 

Thou'rt by no phantom Past pursued, 
No memories dark, unpleasant, 

Thou creature of earth's fairest mood, 
Thou ofTspring of the Present. 

What would I give to be like thee, 

All hateful things foregoing! 
Yet were I happy to be free. 

All human ills unknowing? 

The bitter svv^eetens all the sweet, 
Sorrow gives birth to joying. 

Ah no, my life were incomplete 
Without that life's annoying. 

Thou golden winged butterfly, 

Spirit of joy Elysian, 
Thou once wert of the ground, didst die 

To burst in lovely vision. 

For life is always born of death 

(All Nature tells the story), 
Not even a butterfly draws breath 

But points the moral hoary. 

Spirit of Light, thy hour is bought 
By seasons dark and hidden, 

[no] 



So I'll attain the bliss I sought 
Throuo^h a whole life forbidden. 



'fe' 



True symbol of the soul art thou 
With shining- wings aquiver, 

Only thy joy is here and now, 
While mine shall last forever. 



Lancaster New Era, August 11, 1904 



JUSTICE 

One nig-ht I had a vision 

Of a woman who was blind. 
Her surroundings were Elysian 

But her face was scarcely kind. 
Upon an elevation, 

In solitude profound, 
In deepest meditation ' 

The woman sat and ground. 

Two stones she ground together, 

Like women of the East, 
The upper on the nether , 

And her labor never ceased. 
The grains she ground between them 

O wondrous fine they grew. 
If you had never seen them 

You would not think it true. 

And as I looked and pondered 

The grinding had no end. 
Whence comes the corn? I wondered, 

And I could not comprehend. 
I drew a little nearer 

To see the woman's face. 
And then my sight grew clearer 

xAnd the features I could trace. 

[nil 



'Twas Justitia, sure and certain, 

Minus sword and minus scales, 
O'er her eyes the same old curtain 

(For her vision ever fails.) 
The millstones were both labeled, 

The letters I could read, 
(And if you think this fabled 

You must be blind indeed ! ) 

Well, ''Union" was the watchword 

That blazed upon each one. 
(A very pretty catchword, 

And he who reads will run !) 
The Union of the master, 

The Union of the slave, 
And either means disaster 

To the "non-unioned" lave. 

The corn it was the people 

That blind Justitia crushed. 
Their voice it was so feeble 

By grinding it was hushed. 
For the labor of the grinding, 

Although the sound was low. 
Yet, deafening and blinding, 

Made sure work, if but slow ! 

But when the patient masses 

Were ground all fine and fair, 
Strong men and tender lasses 

And corn was no more there. 
She ground the stones together. 

Impartial as blind 
The upper and the nether 

They must each other grind ! 

— The Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. 30, 1902 



[112] 



THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN 

(not according to kipling) 

Take up the white man's burden, 

Th*e blighting curse of rum. 
How can we say : ''Our Father" ? 

And, "Let Thy kingdom come" ? 
How do we lift the nations? 

How do we help them, pray? 
The children of the races, 

Who makes them devils, say? 

Who brings the fur-clad Aleut 

Extinction sure, if slow? 
Destroys the stalwart Negro 

Where Congo's waters flow? 
The white man's fire-waters 

His legions are, and strong. 
They bind the yoke of sorrow 

On those who know no wrong. 

Cargoes of rum and Bibles ! 

O, Holy Christ, not so 
Didst Thou send forth Thy servants 

Into a world of woe! 
Wliy do we tie the burden? 

Ah, sure it is not meet 
Since we enchained and helpless 

Bow at the tyrant's feet. 

The arm that bears the standard 

Triumphant o'er the wave 
Is shackled and its owner 

Is but a branded slave. 
Off with the iron fetters 

That bind your craven sons 
And bless instead of cursing 

Earth's crushed and bleeding ones ! 

—Lititz Express, Jan. 11, 1901 

[113] 



KEPT 

Sometimes a bird within its cage 
Beats wildly 'gainst the bars; 

Just so my soul in feeble rage 
Against Thy spirit wars. 

But Thou hast planned my life for me 
And Thou hast set the bound. 

My chafing cannot anger Thee 
But my own spirit wound. 

Thou knowest where the fowler's snare 

For wandering feet is set 
While safe within my shelter here 

For liberty I fret. 

For many dangers are without 

But few there are within, 
And Thy love hedges me about 

From hurtful snares of sin. 



Then like some birds in sweet content 

O might I pass my days, 
And make my narrow firmament 

Resound with tuneful praise. 

—The Moravian, May I4, 1902 



A SONG OF SPRING 

Ah, the children long ha^x waited 

For her footsteps slow, 
'Tis a maiden fair belated 

By March winds and snow, 
And with hopes their hearts are freighted 

As the short days grow. 

[114] 



For her stay is wondrous pleasant. 

Though but brief at best. 
Fleeting as the happy present 

To a heart oppressed. 
Shadowy and evanescent 

Seems this winsome guest. 

Whence then cometh this fair maiden? 

AA'hither doth she hie? 
A^'ith the South wind honey-laden 

Where the flowers ne'er die, 
And the balm}^ airs of Aiden 

O'er the meadows sigh. 

What is it this maiden bringeth? 

Gifts both strange and new; 
Generously around she flingeth, 

Violets not a few, 
And the robin madly singeth 

W^elcome glad and true. 

In the emerald grass all golden 

Shine the starry-eyed 
Dandelions which embolden 

Plands to steal their pride. 
Though by lissome maid beholden 

She will never chide. 

Hist ! 'tis there the Summer cometh 

In her wealth arrayed, 
Drowsily the wild bee hummeth, 

Farewell, gentle Maid ! 
Nature's full orchestra drummeth 

Parting serenade. 

And the children, the}' are playing 

Where the roses bloom, 
Happy faces ne'er betraying 

Fear of coming doom. 
Yet the present joys outweighing 

Far-ofif shadows loom. 

["5 1 



For youth's spring-time swiftly passes, 

Pain and age are near. 
And the flowers in the grasses 

Follow brown leaves sere, 
While through life's fast darkening glasses 

Heaven's stars appear. 

Linden Hall Echo, May, 1900 



THE COMING OF THE KING ; 

Far away in the land of the olive and cedar. 

Where the temple of Solomon gloriously shone, 
Jehovah's loved people once more found a leader, 

And the Son of great David came unto His own. 
But they knew not their King in that infant so lowly, 

His cradle a manger, Flis palace a shed. 
And they missed all the joy of that midnight so holy. 

While poor shepherds alone by the vision were led. 

So He comes every year as the centuries are numbered 

And the monarchs of earth still receive not their King. 
All along, as of old, they have slept and have slumbered 

While the songs of the angels throug-h ages yet ring. 
They are rocked in the cradle of wealth and of pleasure. 

They are charmed by the strains of the sirens of sin, 
They are heaping the gems of the world's buried treasure. 

They have barred all the doors and He cannot come in. 

With the splendor of art men have closed all the portals, 

With the sweetness of music have drowned out the song. 
With the clamor of earth driven away the immortals, 

With an image the Christ 'mid the worshipping throng. 
While without in the darkness and cold there still 
blunder 

The lambs of the fold that was once built for them. 
'Mid this new crucifixion they patiently wonder. 

May this be the Christ born in old Bethlehem? 

[ii6] 



'Tis the incense of prayer that the meek Christ is seeking, 

'Tis the song of the children, unstudied and sweet, 
While His altars with blood of the guiltless are reeking, 

While His house is a den for the robber more meet. 
While your voices are muffled with pride and complacence. 

While your purses are fat with the spoils of the poor, 
AVhile you make to your own portly forms your obeisance 

The Christ of the lowly cannot enter your door. 

t 
He is found where the songs are but sorrow and sighing. 

He is found where the flame of the candle burns dim, 
He is found where prayer means the wild, anguished cry- 
ing 

Of the soul that gropes in the darkness for Him, 
He comes, as of old, without diadem royal, 

He comes, as of old, without sceptre or throne. 
He comes to the hearts that are waiting and loyal. 

And 'tis thus that He cometh at last to His own. 

—Lititz Express. Dec. 21, 1900 



A WALK 

V\'e crept beneath the hawthorn hedge 
(The king bird saw us passing by) 

And stealthily along the edge 
Of a wee streamlet where the cry 

Of red-winged blackbirds startled us, 
W^e could not find the nest we sought. 

With many a flutter, many a fuss 
Confusion in the ranks was wrought. 

We rambled through an orchard old. 

Under the gray gnarled apple trees 
Unwonted sounds we heard that told 

More than the keenest vision sees. 

["7] 



We reached a wooded isle at length 

Surrounded by an ocean green 
Of wheat fields fair whose latent strength 

Foretold a harvest aught but lean. 

Anemones w^e found a mine 

Amid the tall grass star-like set, 
The golden fringed columbine 

Embraced a rocky parapet. 

Upon a moss-grown trunk we sat 
And told each other life was sweet, 

(An ideal place to have a chat 
Where Nature's heart unhampered beat.) 

We listened with divided ears 

And what we said scarce understood, 

Our tones Ave re graded by our fears 

Lest we disturb some woodland brood. 

By trim farmhouses then we went 
With weary feet our homeward way, 

And we pronounced the time well spent 
In God's outdoors that lovely day. 

— Lancaster New Era, June 2h, 190U 



A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 

There is a voice that speaks in the night, 
That speaks to the ear of man. 

It speaks with power, it speaks with might. 
It speaks as loud as it can. 

It speaks of the wrongs that he has done 
Or those to right he has failed. 

It never omits a single one 
Committed ere da3dight paled, 

The little lies that were hah a truth, 
Little thefts that no one knew, 



ii8 



The thoughtless follies of giddy youth, 
And sins with the years that grew. 

The errors of a whole life time 

How like sheeted ghosts they conle. 

Till every omission seems a crime 
And the good deeds all are dumb ! 

The voice that by daylight scarce is heard 

Sounds like a bell in the dark, 
It sears the heart with each burninpf word 



As it flies straight to the mark. 



'fc) 



'fe 



'Tis the voice of the Judge that sentence gives 

From which there is no appeal, 
And the naked soul but vainly grieves. 

'Tis a Judge that cannot feel. 

Well for the soul with an Advocate 

To plead at the pitiless bar! 
There was One who died without the gate 

For the souls whom sin did mar. 

And they who fear that voice in the night 
Must strive, while there's time, to win 

The only One that has gained the right 
To silence the Judge within. 

— The Moravian, Dec. 30, 1903 



THE CHRISTMAS STORY 

Once upon a midnight holy 
As the shepherds, poor and lowly. 
Sat their woolly flocks defending 
On the plains of Palestine. 

Lo the shrouded skies were riven 
By a light from highest heaven, 
And, their reverent foreheads bendine 



Did they hear a voice divine. 

[119] 



&' 



While the message of the ages, 
Longed for by the priests and sages, 
By angeHc choirs chanted 
Fell upon their charmed ears. 

First they listened, then they wondered 
And the gladsome tidings pondered, 
By that glorious vision haunted 
Bade farewell to all their fears. 

Soon they haste to find the royal 
Infant and adore in loyal 
Fashion at the lowly manger 
Found in little Bethlehem. 

There a God with flesh encumbered 
Come to bear our ills unnumbered, 
To his people aye a stranger. 
Lay, the fruit of Jesse's stem. 

Far within the holy city 
Dives feasted (ah, the pity!) 
All unknowing of the glory 
Banished to a village inn. 

Priests and Levites, all unheeding 
On Jehovah's errands speeding, 
Never heard the angels' story 
Told no temple court within. 

Once again the bells are ringing 
And the childish hosts are bringing 
Gifts of praise of hearts and voices 
To the King who came a child. 

Once again the nations offer 
Richest gifts from purse and coffer. 
And the Christian world rejoices 
Over Him men once reviled. 

[ 120] 



But, ye potentates, remember, 
And ye Pha^risees, (December 
Hath no colder heart, I know it!) 
Christ was born for lowly men. 

Though a king he lived a peasant, 
Chose no easy lot nor pleasant, 
And to crown his love ye owe it 
To grow humble once again. 



THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 

The fleecy white clouds are lying still. 

Like isles, in a sapphire sea, 
Or the flocks of heaven that graze at will 

In cerulean pastures free. 
Are those the fabled isles of the blest. 

Or the fields of asphodel. 
Where the soul is at peace in an ocean of rest, 

As inspired poets tell? 

If those are the isles of the blest, my love, 

Or the heavenly pastures fair 
No pathway I see that leads above 

No ladder nor golden stair. 
Must we climb the steeps of amethyst 

That the azure pastures bound? 
I see only a cloud of purple mist 

That girds yon summit 'round. 

Those may be the isles of the blest, my dear. 

For aught that we may know. 
And Jacob's ladder may still be here, 

While the angels come and go. 
The eyes of the spirit are dull and weak 

Within the body penned. 
And the isles of the blest we may not seek 

Till death the vail shall rend. 

— The Lancaster New Era, May 23, 1903 

[ 121 ] 



WHAT IS IT? 



DEDICATED TO A. C. R. 



What's that on the sofa there, 
Violet eyes and golden hair, 

Laughing- mouth and dimpled chin, 
Snowy neck and rose-leaf cheek. 
Where the dimples play at peek? 

Sure to guess you can't begin. 

What's that on the sofa, say, 
Cooing to itself all day, 

Laughing- at its pink-toed feet, 
Seeing wonders everywhere. 
At the ceiling, in the air, 

Thinks this world is hard to beat? 

What's that lying by itself. 
Like a dolly on a shelf. 

Like a little idol-god 
On a downy pedestal, 
Like a Avhite pearl in a shell. 

Like a sweet pea in a pod? 

What is that so fresh and fine, 
Like a jewel from the mine, 

Like a rose bud 'mid the leaves, 
Like a dew drop on a flower, 
Like a fairy in her bower. 

Like the blush of rosette eves? 

What is that so snug and warm. 
Safely cuddled up from harm 

Like a birdling in a nest, 
Flutters like a birdling too. 
With a gurgle and a coo 

Flying to the mother's breast? 

\^^lat is that as pure and clean 
As a snowflake's stainless mien. 
Like an angel spotless quite, 

[ 122] 



Free from sin and innocent, 
From celestial regions sent 
By a messenger of light? 

It's a baby. Can't you guess? 
You are stupid, I confess ! 

Yet you are not all to blame, 
For the thing so dainty is 
One might eat, instead of kiss, 

Were it not a blessed shame! 



THE TEMPLE OF THE SUN 

In ancient Egypt lived a king 

Who would the sun a temple build, 

So forth he sent wise architects to bring 
To make the plans he willed. 

And rich reward he would confer 

On him Avhose plan should please him best. 
Among the multitude of plans there were 

Three better than the rest. 

The one was massive, wide and high. 
Colossal work of sculptured stone, 

But through its walls gigantic ne'er the sky 
Xor sun had ever shone. 

The second was an artist's dream, 

A splendid vision unexcelled, 
And yet its gloomy space within no gleam 

Of sunlight e'er beheld. 

The model of the third was glass. 

Transmuted, as it were, to gold. 
Through all its walls the sun itself might pass 

Unhindered, uncontrolled. 

'This is the temple of the, sun 

And wins the prize," the king thus spake. 
''Upon this pattern wisely, finely done 

My temple I will make." 

[ 123 ] 



The lesson dost thou understand 

The legend is designed to teach? 
Through temples made by erring human hand 

VVouldst thou the great God reach? 

Our temples often only hide 

The glory that they would reveal. 
How can the Holy Spirit e'er abide 

In walls that but conceal? 

And what are we? His temples all! 

Then let the Spirit's glory shine 
Through bodies that all times unhindered shall 

Transmit His power divine. 

— The Moravian, Feb. 15, 1905 



THE FUNERAL OF THE YEAR 

They have buried the Year in cloth of gold, 
They have crowned her with jewels rare. 

She was clothed in the purple that kings wore of old, 
All bordered with ermine so fair. 

They bore her to rest 'mid the solemn swell 

Of the North Wind's music so deep 
While the leaves of the forest in showers fell, 

Like tears from the eyes that weep. 

And the Clouds, like hooded friars, bent low% 

Counting beads in the drops of rain. 
While the moaning Trees lent their note of woe 

To the requiem's sad refrain. 

She was borne by the winds so gentle and fleet, 
Like a wraith through the autumn mist. 

They touched not the earth with their winged feet. 
And made her a grave where they list. 

[ 124 ] 



In the vast isles of the forest so dim 

There was silence and grief profound, 
And the wild North Wind hushed his mournful hymn 

As she lay on the mossy ground. 

The train of her mourners was long and still, 

From city and hamlet they came, 
From mountain and valley, woodland and hill. 

Scarce limit to number or name. 

And a gorgeous pageant the Seasons made, 

As they followed the quiet dead. 
In the splendor of all the earth arrayed, 

As if decked for a marriage bed. 

The Days and the Hours, a jubilant throng. 
Trooped along, clasping hand in hand. 

But dumb on their lips had frozen the song. 
And their garlands had broken the strand. 

The fowls of the air and the beasts of the field. 

And men, not the last nor the least. 
They mourned with a grief that was unconcealed, 

And they lauded her, man and beast. 

For the Year had borne a fame that was good, 
She had done the best that she knew, 

She had filled the land with plenty and food 
And had left nor sorrow nor rue. 



Her smile had gladdened the rich and the poor, 
Her bounty the good and the bad. 

She had entered, an angel of mercy, the door 
Of the aged, the sick and the sad. 

Do you wonder, then, there was little dearth 
Of splendor to garnish her tomb? 

It is meet that she sleep like the great of earth 
In beauty and sacred gloom. 



[ 125 



They laid her low with the flowers of Spring, 

But not like the flowers to rise 
When the birds from the Smith their matins sing 

'Neath the smile of sunnier skies. 

She was laid with the years that have gone before 

In the catacombs of the Past, 
And the fame of her deeds shall die no more 

While the records of earth shall last. 

— Lancaster New Era, Nov. 28, 190S 



"BEYOND THE ALPS LIES ITALY" 

'' Beyond the Alps lies Italy," 

Beyond our present pain 
W^e ever look for joys to be, 

And evermore in vain. 
Ever on the beyond our weary eyes we strain. 

The prattle of the little child, 

The golden dreams of youth 
Show minds by airy forms beguiled 

Unknown to sterner Truth, 
And doomed to feel the touch of Time's unsparing tooth. 

Joys fly before our onward pace, 

As we approach recede. 
As false mirage the travelers chasQ, 

We still pursue with speed 
To find a mocking pain where'er their fottsteps lead. 

One dreams of love and fame and gold, 

But as the years roll by 
They find him poor, unknown and cold 

Yet still with courage high. 
He will not see his fate as one gigantic lie. 

[126] 



Another dreams his S(ms may reap 

The joys to him denied, 
That they may cHmb the Abpine steep 

And reach the sunny side, 
Hope, disappointed, dies in love's unselfish tide. 

\Mien time and toil and care their part 

Have done to quench the light 
The vision in the human heart 

Grows even then more brig-ht, 
The dimmed eye reaches up to a supremer height. 

Dream on, dream on, oh, human soul ! 

God gave thee v^dngs to soar, 
That v^hile the billows 'round thee roll 

Thou mayst not hear them roar 
But fly to One who stands upon the other shore. 

As one by one thy bubbles l3reak. 

Thy dreams and visions fail 
Thy flight to yonder Eden take 

Where endless joys prevail 
Before whose brightness all thy fairest dreams must pale. 

— Lancaster New Era, July 19, 1902 



THE SONG OF LABOR 

Not the ]:)ainter sees the picture, not the poet hears the 

rhyme. 
Not the singer feels the music ringing through the aisles 

of time, 
But the poet's soul is throbbing 'neath the blouse as well 

as vest, 
While the artist in the artisan stands openly confessed. 

Azure skies display their glories to the sons of ease and 

toil, 
And the sweetest flowers oft l)lossom in what seemed l)ut 

sterile soil. 

'[1271 



God hath made the earth so lovely that the eyes of all 

might see 

And His gifts to men are scattered widely, plentiful and 

free. * 

Beauty to the gorgeous sunset and the flower is not con- 
fined, 

Genius finds a soil not only in the Izard's or painter's mind. 

For the common things have beauty, but for him alone 
contained 

Who has eyes by God anointed nor by love of gold pro- 
faned. 

There is music in the hammer, there is music in the saw, 
Sure as love in Sinai's thunder and the terrors of the law. 
Though the screeching factory whistle by the scornful is 

decried, 
'Tis the bugle call of labor and its music will abide. 

Long in carnage men delighted and the battle was the 

theme 
Of the singer and the poet, of the peaceful artist's dream. 
Minstrels vied to weave the laurels 'round the despot's 

cruel head. 
And the butcher was the hero dyeing all the rivers red. 

Change your theme, ye peaceful painters, and ye bards of 

gentle heart, 
Do not in the march of progress bear the wild barbarian's 

part. 
Sing the praises of the builder not of the destroyer grim. 
To the maker, the inventor, tune your sweet, triumphal 

hymn. 

There is beauty in the workshop, there is beauty every- 
where 

Where the work of man is towering over land and sea in 
air. 

He who feels no thrill of gladness nor a conscious power 
within 

At the signs of man's achievement man nor poet should 
have been. 

[ 128 ] 



Sing the praises of the monster spanning- earth on ribs of 

steel. 
Sing the terror of the ocean and the triumph of the wheeh 
Ah^the gifts of God are varied and the men who toil and 

sweat. 
The}' are meant to be the monarchs, that shall rule this old 

earth yet. 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 5, 1906 
— Gems in Verse, American Press Association, 1906 

THE MASTER'S FEET 

Out upon the wind-swept common 

Where sweet herbs the cattle summon, 

'Mid the gentle undulations of the rolling fields of wheat. 

In the cool, green woodland quiet 

^^'here the shy birds only riot 

Evermore we hear the echoes, echoes of the Master's feet. 

Seated on the breezy hillside, 
Or in boat by the lake's still side, 

Teaching people as He wandered by the blue Gennesaret, 
AVhiling 'mid the gray-green shadow 
(Once upon His brow so sad. oh!) 

Falling from the bending olives where the ground with 
blood was wet. 

Do we see Him only yonder, 

Where He once was used to wander, 

'Mid the sacred vales and hills of far-off pictured Pales- 
tine? 

In a mystic light and holy, 

Dim and distant, living solely 

By the painter's brush or pages of the Scriptured text di- 
vine? 

No, the centuries have left Him 
Brighter light than men bereft Him 
In a land where many of us never will be like to go. 
And we have Him; He is present 
Evermore with king and peasant 

In a sense that ancient Israel could not, did not care to 
know. 

[ 1^9 1 



Ah, I know it, yea, I feel it, 
'Tis the heart that must reveal it, 

He is walking- ever with us as the seasons wax and wane. 
He is with us in the g-arden. 
Lest the bitter cup should harden. 

To the dreg-s himself He drained it. bitter cup of human 
pain. 

He is here at morn and even 
And he brings a breath of heaven 

Into every passing minute of the Meeting years and days. 
With the footsteps of the Master 
Life may move on ever faster 

Since we're here, as well as yonder, walking in Llis jdeas- 
ant ways. 

— The Evangelical, Sept. 25, 1900 



DESERTED 

The shadows dance on the wall to-night 
'Mid the fitful flames that flicker bright 
In the dusky room but half alight 

From the hearth fire's. ruddy glow. 
A woman sits in the shadow there, 
The frost of winter is on her hair. 
Her head droops low in her easy chair 

As she dreams of long ago. 

In the night outside the snow falls fast. 

The white flakes scurry before the blast, 

While the old house shakes like the rotten mast 

Of a storm-tossed ship at sea. 
The little old house is very old. 
The lives it has sheltered are manifold. 
The storms it has weathered are untold, 

As autumn leaves on the lea. 

The mossy shingles are rotted through. 
And the neighboring owls and bats ne'er knew 
A better place for a rendezvous 
Than the space below the roof. 



130 



On the garret squirrels have found a house. 
Through the ceiHng creeps the fearless mouse, 
While noises strange of the wild carouse 
Of rats are a nightly proof. 

The furniture's worn and out of date, 

The pictures are a century late. 

While the very floors seem but to wait 

To trip the unwary feet. 
The woman too is behind the age, 
But worn-out gear upon life's stage, 
In the battle of life that all must wage 

She had met a slow defeat. 

She saw them departing one by one. 

Childless they left her, widowed and lone. 

But she cannot weep, she hath ceased to moan. 

Was it so, or had she dreamed? 
She had been without the light so long 
She loved the shadows she dwelt among, 
And the very firelight all too strong 

To her darkened vision seemed. 

While the crazy house in the tempest shakes. 
And the mouse behind the wainscot quakes. 
The slumbering power of memory wakes 

And peoples the dusky room. 
She sees her husband so strong and tall, 
Her children are there, both great and small, 
E'en parents and friends have come at call 

To lighten her life's long gloom. 

No more the ghostly voices are heard. 

But the cheerful sound of the spoken word, 

And childhood's laughter, Hke song of bird, 

So joyous, secure from ill. 
The storm dies down with the dawn of day, 
Dream-forms and shadows have fled away. 
And the fire has sunk in ashes gray. 

While the room is bare and chill. 

[131] 



The snow has covered the earth outside 
A^'ith the spotless robe of a new-made bride, 
And the Easter bells ring^ far and wide 

For the resurrection morn. 
But the figure before the fireless grate — 
She slumbers long, she slumbers late — 
For her soul has entered the pearly gate 

From the tenement old and worn. 



PRESUMPTION REPROVED 

St. Augustine the good and wise, 
Was poring once with tired eyes 
And weary brain o'er mysteries 

Within God's Word, 
Besieged by doubts and vain surmise 

By Satan stirred. 

He fell asleep and dreamed that he 
Was walking by the mighty sea. 
He saw a child who seemed to be. 

With shell supplied, 
Dipping into a hole which she 

Had dug beside. 

"What are you doing, child?" he said. 
The little girl was undismayed. 
'' I want to fill the hole I made 

With water I 
Find in the ocean wide displayed 

And dip it dry." 

The sage, awakened from his dream. 
Said sadly, " Think that I could deem 
My little mind would hold one gleam 

Of truth divine 
\\'hile cherubim and sera])him 

Unknow^ing pine ! 

[ 132 1 



" Like yonder little child in vain 
I tried to dip the boundless main 
Into my pigmy human brain. 

Henceforth no more 
Upon the mysteries God would fain 

Conceal I'll pore." 

— The Moravian, March 5, 1902 



THE JUGGERNAUT OF PROGRESS 

O, the Jugg'ernaut of Progress, 

Now it hews a nation down, 
Then the forest giants of eons 

For the building of one town. 
Once it slew the fierce Assyrian, 

Now we dig him from the dust. 
And the grandeur of old Egypt 

Is the. prey of worm and rust. 

Over graves of buried empires 

It has paved a broad highway 
For the wizard feet of Science 

From Granada to Cathay, 
And the Gods that ruled unchallenged 

In the dungeons of the past 
Shrink away with blinded eyeballs 

From the glare upon them cast. 

Once the Indian ruled our forest, 

And his wigwam specked the plain, 
While his light canoe unhampered 

Sailed the river to the main, 
Now the smoke of grimy cities 

And the dust and filth of trade 
I-Iave polluted all our waters, 

Given slum for sylvan shade. 

Now again the race of Nature 

In our islands of the sea 
Feels the ruthless feet of Progress 



v')v) 



And mi>st bow the conquered knee. 
We will civilize the savage 

Till we've almost slain the race, 
And at least may people Hades 

Though the isles are desert space. 

Freedom ! Do you speak of freedom ? 

Freedom is an idle dream 
When the giant force of Progress 

Sweeps us onward, like a stream, 
And we may not check the current 

('Tis relentless, like a Fate) 
Lest it fling us on the headlands 

For a warning all too late. 

Where its form has never entered 

Is there liberty and peace? 
While the sun reigns high in heaven 

Its dominion cannot cease. 
'Tis the Juggernaut of Progress 

That at last all wrongs must right. 
For the hoary wrongs of ages 

It treads under in its might. 

'Tis the Juggernaut of Progress 

That alone a path can clear 
For the truer peace and freedom 

Of a brighter, happier sphere. 
For the freedom of the savage, 

Like the wild beast's in its den, 
Is the prey of all the terrors 

Both of elements and men. 

Would we go back to the desert. 

With the painted Indian dwell? 
For his boasted independence 

All our patrimony sell? 
Would we flout the toil of centuries 

Of the martyr and the sage. 
Would we forfeit all the riches 

Of the world's well-lettered page? 



134 



No, we would not hinder Progress, 

Thoug-h its ways are often dark, 
Like the pathless waste of ocean 

^When Columbus manned his bark. 
For its course is always forward, 

With no limit but the stars. 
Would we share the victor's triumph 

AA> dare never shun the scars. 



THE LESSON OF AUTUMN 

The reddening vines upon the chapel tower 

The windy brown October wood 
Reminders are of summer's waning power 

And winter's sterner mood. 

See yonder park all bathed in golden glory, 
The brook grown drowsy in 'the mist. 

The falling leaves now tell another story. 
No more by zephyrs kissed. 

Now sweeps the Storm King with his mighty choru; 

O'er fields where harvests late were seen, 
Thus ruthlessly life's joys are swept before us. 

As they had never been. 

The merry birds too have long since departed. 

No flowers grace the barren soil. 
Thus pleasures oft desert the broken-hearted, 

And shun the suns of toil. 

Yet there is beauty in this fading splendor 
And in the Storm King's paeans deep. 

Through all we read a meaning sweet and tender. 
And smile the while we weep. 

The generous hand that all the joy dispenses, 
The springtide and the summer's bloom. 

Can make us see through His diviner lenses 
A lioht amid the o-loom. 



[ 135 



As throug-h our trembling- hands we see them cruml^le, 
These earth-born joys, short-lived and frail, 

AVe raise our tear-dimmed eyes with spirit humble 
To joys that cannot fail. 

— The Moravian, November, 15, 1899 



THE OLD FRIENDS 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 
The old friends all have fled. 

Across the waste of years they call. 
The voices of the dead. 

Within the firelight's ruddy glow. 

In twilight's quiet hour 
We see the old friends come and go 

And feel their oldtime power. 

Some died as children, girls and boys, 

They left us at our play. 
We think of them as broken toys 

That we have laid away. 

Some left in woman, manhood's prime. 
Ere their day's work was done. 

They sickened, died before their time ; 
As flowers in the sun. 

Some in the fullness of their years. 
Like sheaves were gathered in. 

Though we could not restrain our tears 
We felt that grief was sin. 

The long procession comes and goes, 
The old friends we have known. 

Though the quick tear no longer flows 
We oft make speechless moan. 



136 



Is is a goodly company, 

We love with them to speak. 
Sometimes the daily cares we flee 

And converse with them seek. 

They still can kindly counsel give, 

Their presence yet is sweet. 
Who with the past delight to live 

The present joys repeat. 

AMiat if the old friends all be dead, 

This comfort will remain 
That though their living forms are fled 

Their memory we retain. 

— Lancaster New Era, Feb. 17, 1906 



THE PHANTOM DEER 

A LEGEND OF THE ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS 

In the Green Woods lived Tom Bronson but he never 
found it lonesome 

For his wife was fair and winsome and two stalwart sons 
she bore. 

Reckless was the man, undaunted, in a region terror- 
haunted, 

Openly his courage vaunted when the hunters aired their 
store 

Of adventures dread, appallng, which l^efel them, o'er and 
o'er. 

On a day Tom went a gunning when he saw^ a white deer 

running. 
But no thought had he of shunning what he ne'er had 

cause to fear. 
\\>11 he knew^ the faith prevailing, oft saw swarthy 

hunters paling 
As the phantom deer went sailing scathless, l)e it far or 

near, 
Yet he aimed and soon the crimson life-blood stained the 

snowy deer. 

[ 137 ] 



In the dnsk a dreary token, thoui^ht he, though with 

thoui^ht unspoken, 
Was a dismal raven croakin^- in the branches overhead. 
But the white doe's flesh was eaten and his timid friends 

seemed beaten 
^Vhen they said there was no cheating vengeance by a 

phantom dread, 
Retribution sure would follow on the man's devoted head. 

Sure it followed six weeks after and it caused in Tom no 

laughter. 
For, though skilled in huntsman's craft, he fell while look- 

for the den 
Of a wolf's pack near the river, and the mishap made him 

shiver 
For he broke his arm and ever he kept thinking 'twas the 

glen 
W here he did a deed no power e'er could make him do 

again. 

Tom had come to see his folly and he soon grew melan- 
choly, 

In his time so bold and jolly, fearing neither man nor 
ghost. 

But misfortunes gathered faster and he was no longer 
master 

Of his fate. Now cruel disaster robbed him of his heir 
and boast. 

Then his wife died and the anguish of that blow unnerved 
him most. 

Forth at last into the forest wandered Bronson to the 

sorest 
Battle, for at home no more rest could the wretched hunter 

find. 
Here a wounded buck attacked him. Though he sought, 

his son ne'er tracked him. 
For the fierce beast tore and hacked him till both died, 

Tom and the hind. 
Bones were found by traveling fishers bleached snow-white 

by sun and wind. 



Knife and rifle told the story of Tom's dire fate and gory. 

But the white deer in its glory ever since unscathed re- 
mains, 

For no hunter there wouhl venture such a grevvsome, sad 
adventure, 

Neither would he brave the censure of his brethren of the 
plains, 

And misfortune spares the huntsmen in the pale deer's 
wide domains. 



'PME NATIVITY 

The days are filled with quietness. 
The nights are white and still. 

And a mantle of crystal brightness 
Covers valley, field and hill. 

The sunlight glimmers through a mist, 
The stars gleam pale and cold. 

On such a night the infant Christ 
Was born, as seers foretold. 

Although the hills of Palestine 

'Round ancient Bethlehem 
Were covered with the shec]) and kine, 

And shepherds watched by them. 

Judea's plains were green and fair. 

Judea's hearts were cold, 
Judea's ears were slow to hear 

What herald angels told. 

The very oxen in their stalls 
The new-born King adored 

While haughty men in palace halls 
Nor knew nor sought their Lord. 

Thus it is ever. Nature sings 

One ceaseless song of praise. 
While man alone no tribute brings. 
Steeped in forgetfulness. 

• 
[ 139 1 



Two thousand years have rolled away 

Since erst the Lord was born, 
And are our hearts as cold to-day 

As that first Christmas morn? 

The grass on Judah's hills is green, 

Our fields are white with snow. 
But the Lord Christ may still be seen 

Where warm the heart-fires glow. 

Then quickly ere it be too late. 

While winter winds blow keen 
Open the door, unbar the gate, 

And let the Christ Child in. 

And though He come in garments old, 

Come tattered and come torn. 
With Him the Sybil's Age of Gold 

Within your heart is born. 

^^'ith^n your soul a reign of peace 

His entrance there shall bring, 
A joy that nevermore shall cease 

The while the angels sing. 

— The Moravian, Dec. 20, 1899 



SPRLNG MELODIES 

(from the GERMAN OF ANNA HElNZ) 

The clouds disperse, the wandering mist 

'Mid clefts of rock is shivered. 
And through the azure morning air 

The lark's glad note has quivered. 
My heart, now canst thou hope once more 

After dark AVinter's sorrow. 
The golden days are at the door, 

Songtide of youth's fair morrow ! 



140 



The S])ring' wind o'er the hillside sweeps 

A song of triumph swelling, 
In tones of resurrection harps 

The murmuring beechwood's welling; 
AMiat the brook dreamed all winter long 

W ithin the gray rock's niches 
In young life foams a current strong 

And trills a sons: delicious ! 



'^. 



And what the chaffinch glad o'erheard 

Whispered in budding hedges 
Drunk with the joy of Spring it shouts 

The young day from the ledges. 
In answering choirs the robins sing 

From valley unto valley, 
As if joy's self were entering 

On song's gold wings to dally. 

It is, as though from duress freed, 

Love's holy power and tender 
O'erflowed in sound all unaware. 

Surcharged with heaven's splendor, 
As if one mighty chorus filled 

The earth with festal singing. 
The sunbeam's self that blossoms thrilled 

With kisses music bringing. 

Hast thou, my heart, through winter long 

Grown old and heavy laden. 
Wake up ! the stirring life force shouts 

In joyous strains of Aiden. 
O, sing aloud, rejoice once more! 

Discard thy weeds of sorrow\ 
The golden days are at the door, 

Songtide of y(~>uth's fair morrow ! 

—Linden Hall Echo, May, 190.2 



Mil 



THE VILLAGE GRAVEYARD 

The village church stands on a hill, 

The God's acre behind it lies, 
A sacred spot, remote and still 

From traffic's noise and prying eyes. 

'Twas there we strayed, my friend and I, 

One balmy eve in early May, 
And not another sound w^as nigh. 

But robins trilled along the way. 

The moss pink flushed some mounds with red. 
And some were broidered all in white. 

Its azure stars the myrtle spread 

O'er some like rays of heaven's light. 

Their wealth of waxen fairy bells 
Half hid in tufts of deepest green. 

The valley's lilies, in which dwells 

The sweetest fragrance wove a screen 

O'er many a lowly grave the while 
The mossy slabs half seemed to bend 

To catch the dainty floweret's smile 

And gray death with sweet life to blend. 

Ah, yes, gray death was all around, 
All lichened, mossy, full of gloom. 

And dull decay while every mound 
Was bright with resurrection bloom. 

A simple name upon a stone, 

• A soul in yonder world of bliss. 

The record we have here alone, 

The empty room whose light we miss. 

The seed we planted in the earth 

Delights the eyes with beauty rare, 

Our dead awake to higher birth 
And loveliness beyond compare. 

[1421 



O, fair God's Acre, thou didst teach 

A truth we find too often hid, 
For our dull minds too seldom reach 

Above the height of coffin lid. 

— The Lancaster Intelligence!- , May S, 1902 



HUMAN NATURE NEVER SATISFIED 

Of Haroun Al Raschid it is said 

That love of mankind often led 

Him through the streets of Bagdad gay 

To wend at night his unknown way. 

And learn in lot of rich and poor 

The ills that he, might find the cure. 

Rut not alone the calif went, 

The grand vizier his counsel lent. 

And Alezrour, executioner. 

Was at his side to heed each stir 

Of princely wrath and let the sword 

Decide vexed problems at a word. 

No despot he who would not heed 

Or did not feel his subjects' need. 

One night they passed a mansion fair 

Whence issued accents of despair. 

So silently the trio drew 

Near to a window, seeing through 

The same a man of regal mien 

On a divan of satin sheen. 

The calif saw in great surprise 

His petted favorite bathed in sighs, 

The man whom he had honored more 

Than any in his realm before. 

*'0. Allah ! " cried the wretched wight, 

O take my life, I pray, to night ! " 

Al Raschid longed to know what fate 
Ill-starred oppressed the man. Though late, 
He entrance craved and entrance found. 

[ '4,? 1 



Soon in the master's presence round 
A well-spread table sat the three. 
The host still sad, as they could see. 
At last Al Raschid spoke. '' My friend, 
What dost thou crave? Can Allah send 
You more than you already own. 
Unless you want Al Raschid's throne?" 
" True, stranger," quoth the host, " I need 
Nothing that earth can give, indeed 
I've honors, wealth and favor great 
With Allah's favorite, yet I hate 
These things since one thing is denied. 
I want Zuleima for my bride. 
Her face is like the moon at full. 
Her eyes make the gazelle's seem dull. 
She loves me not and hence I yearn 
To leave this life whose joys I spurn," 
" r>y IVophet's beard thy case defies 
All human help, but Allah's wise ; 
He may deliver you or give 
You strength to bear, if you must live." 

The calif left the mansion's door 

And sought the streets where dw^elt the poor 

Amid the gloom he tripped. Well nigh 

He fell o'er something whence a cry 

Issued as one were in distress. 

"O, Allah, spare m}^ wretchedness! 

Must I be trodden under foot 

By other beggars, like a brute?" 

His sword indignant Mezrour drew 

But dared not strike. Al Raschid due 

Inquiries made. WHiat man would sleep 

Where others walk, all in a heap? 

" Mashallah," quoth the beggar, " I 

Sleep here since I've no place to lie. 

Divans of silk could give no rest 

To one by want and ills oppressed. 

And did I sleep my dreams would be 

Of banquets that my waking flee. 

[ 144 ] 



The wasting flames my home consumed, 
My kindred died and I am doomed 
To languish here of all bereft 
I once held dear; life only's left." 
''One thing," the calif said, " at least 
I hope to cure. Buy shelter, feast." 
His purse he to the beggar gave 
Who took it like a thankless slave. 
" What help is money since disease 
Its golden charms unvanquished flees?" 

A palace now the three draw near 

And through a lighted window peer. 

Behind the silken curtains paced 

A man whose heavy eyelids faced 

A sleepless night. With languid feet 

He walked and then upon a seat 

He threw himself and yawning cried: 

" How can I still this life abide? 

It is a never ending cheat, 

Hope disappointed and defeat ! " 

The curious calif knocked once more, 

And soon inside the friendly door, 

As Eastern custom has decreed. 

The strangers were refreshed with speed, 

The melancholy host was kind 

But seemed to converse ill inclined. 

He paced the floor and took no part. 

So great the burden on his heart, 

" If thy disease of cure admit, 

The calif said, " I venture it 

Will yield to remedies I learned 

While on my travels where I earned 

A leech's name." ''Ah, no, my pain 

Is mental. Every cure is vain. 

My curse is that I have no lack, 

No hope, no joy. Could I turn back 

And strive, as once in days gone by! 

I nothing need, ambitions die. 

Had I one want I could be glad 

[145 1 



Once more as ere I all things had." 

" Thy case is quite beyond my skill," 

The calif said. " I have my fill 

Of human nature for to-night. 

O, perverse man, it is in vain 

I seek to ease thy diverse pain ! 

If one thing lacks or all or none 

Joy will the hapless mortal shun, 

We'll home to bed. Let Allah care 

For such a race. I've done my share ! " 



THE LIMITATIONS OF NATURE 

SUGGESTBD BY WORDSWORTH 

The sun shone bright, the sky was blue 

And clear as sky could be. 
The air was fresh with morning dew. 

And sweet with minstrelsy. 

The grass was green, the flowers bloomed, 

Nature kept holiday. 
Could any living thing be doomed 

To aught but joy and play? 

"Ah me, it is a lovely world, 

A joyous world," I said. 
I felt my soul's wings wide unfurled, 

As a ship's sails are spread. 

Exultant as a bird and free 

I drank the sweet air's breath. 

I asked myself if pain might be, 
Or such a thing as death? 

A letter came. A dark pall fell 

And hid the sunny day, 
The gay birds sang a doleful knell, 

The light air weighed like clay! 



[146 



All Nature sings with myriad voice — 

Too oft a doubtful boon — 
For while the rolling- worlds rejoice 

The soul is out of tune. 

music of the spheres, ring on 
While endless eons roll ! 

Better a human touch upon 
The vibrant human soul ! 

1 love the everlasting hills, 
I love the forest grim, 

Yet Nature freezes oft and chills; 
Iler light at best, is dim. 

No running brook can ever heal 

A soul by sin -oppressed; 
The heart the sharpest pain can feel 

By zephyrs mild caressed. 

The ancient Greek found no repose 

In universal Pan, 
Philosophy no solace knows 

For sinning, suitering man. 

The balm of Gilead is not found 

Amid the tempest's roar. 
Earth's temples are the fearful ground 

Where Sinai's thunders pour. 

The beauteous fields, the glowing skies, 
They speak of endless power. 

Not of a Saviour kind as wise, 
Hope of the dying hour. 

Then let us love her. Nature fair, 

Wisely but not too well ; 
Much does her open book declare 

That sages cannot tell. 



[147 



iUit need we balm for human woe, 

A cure for sorrow's smart, 
Then to another Book we'll go, 

The store-house of the heart! 

— The Evangelical, Nov. 6, 1900 



WHY THE WOMAN'S CHRISTIAN TEMPERANCE 
UNION STANDS FOR HOME 

Why do we stand for home, you ask? 

The answer is not far to seek. 
Ah, sure it is a pleasant task 

For our loved homes to speak. 

Yet should I speak in verse or prose 

I cannot say the thing-s I would. 
With all the colors of the rose 

No painter ever could 

Do justice to the vision fair 

That up before his spirit came 
^^'hen he would half the charms declare 

Held by that simple name. 

No artist, poet, minstrel bright 
Could e'er depict the joys we find 

In that dear haven that by right 
Flolds heart of humankind. 

Home is the dearest, sweetest word 

In every land, with every race ; 
No dearer wanderer ever heard 

Left with no resting place. 

It lingers on the lip and tongue. 

It melts the eye to tender tears. 
Like song by some sweet singer sung 

Reechoes in the ears. 

Flome is the nest where birdlings thrive 
Beneath the brooding mother wing. 

[1481 



To keep that nest untouched, men strive 
By every evil thing. 

There childhood innocent remains. 
There youth to man untainted grows. 

There woman's honor knows no stains 
And purity no foes. 

\\'ith home is linked a father's care, 
A mother's love, a sister's charm. 

Men find a peaceful haven there, 
A refuge from all harm. 

Once thus it was, but is it yet? 

A stronghold erst, will it remain ? 
Can parent a loved child forget 

And leave in want and pain? 

Can traps be set for heedless feet? 

Can home be left without a guard? 
Too oft, alas ! Then is it meet 

That we set watch and ward. 

We, as the mothers of the land, 
\\'e, as the wives, the sisters dear, 

^^'e, as the daughters, we demand, 
"Who dares to enter here?" 

If husbands, fathers, brothers fail 
To guard the shrine we love so well 

Then must the tender and the frail 
To war with shot and shell. 

^^> may not rest, we dare not shrink. 
And apathy means certain death. 

Like Christ the bitter cup we drink 
That others safe draw breath. 

The air is full of death to-day. 

Of noxious vapors, foul and dense. 

Then forth, fair women, to the fray. 
And drive the terrc^r hence. 



149 



Lest it 'Should enter and destroy 
What we would gladly die to keep 

Untainted for the girl and boy 
For whom we work and weep. 

What we have done we'll do again. 
What we have long begun complete, 

A/Ve'll spare not muscle, tongue nor pen, 
Nor falter at defeat. 

We'll raze the dens by bad men built 

Our dearest pleasures to pollute, 
And make them slaves of blackest guilt, 

Half devil and half brute. 

We will build temples, fanes instead. 
Where men may worship and adore 

A holy God, the foe w^e dread 
Banished forevermore. 

—Read at a W. C. T. U. Institute, July, 1905 



THE WOODS IN WINTER 

The stars are shining overhead, 
The snow gleams white beneath. 

And all around I see the dead, 
" The settled face of death." 

The trees are rattling skeletons, 
(The brook's entombed in ice) 

Some look like cowled monks and nuns, 
Or sculptor's quaint device. 

And some look most like shieted ghosts, 
Some more like mailed knights. 

The wind artillery for these hosts 
Sends clattering from the heig'hts. 

A diverse group, fantastic forms. 
Death's voiceless carnival ! 



[150] 



The puppets of a thousand storms 
They keep high festivaL 

Earth seems one lofty charnel room, 

The spectral lamps gleam far, 
No human sound this fete of gloom 

May interrupt or mar. 

Why shrink, my soul, within thyself 

And fly the grisly show 
When buoyant life, a sportive elf, 

Lies hid beneath the snow? 

In ermine and in eider down, 

Like royal child it sleeps, 
Spring waits the lusty babe to crown, 

Afar she vigil keeps. 

Once more the vigorous sap shall run 
Through stiffened limbs and bare, 

Once more shall thrive in breeze and sun 
A verdure fresh and fair. 

Where sheeted ghosts stand grim and tall 

Shall stand a stately crew 
Of crowned monarchs at the call 

Of summer's grand review. 

The flowers shall star the barren ground. 

As planets stud the sky, 
And life shall reign where death is found. 

For Nature cannot die. 

Thus age's frost nor death can kill 

The soul with slow decay. 
The life is there, unchained it will 

Burst forth in endless day. 

Linden Hall Echo, January, 1902 



IN THE FIRELIGHT 

As I sit alone by the fire to-night, 
All bathed in the glow of its rosy light, 
My heart is filled with a calm delight. 

Suffused with the sense of its warm content 

1 care not a fig for a continent. 

Nor for all the toys for which men lament. 

I look upon its cheery depths and see 
The picture of all things dear to me 
In the past or in time that is yet to be. 

I see the faces of friends that have passed 
The shadowy portals, dim and vast, 
Whose threshold we all must cross at last. 

Here is the stuff of which dreams are made. 
An Aladdin's lamp by whose genial aid 
I can people the realms of roomy shade. 

Here is the chariot in which with ease 
I may travel over all lands and seas. 
With nor let nor limit save as I please. 

I see the snow on the Apennines, 

I visit the North with its fiords and pines, 

And feast on the fruit of fair Candia's vines. 

The tinkle I hear of the Alpine herd. 

Sweet Philomel's song ('tis the poet's bird), 

Yea, my heart by unnumbered sounds is stirred. 

The crackle of coal 'mid the purple flame 
Can be made to sound like whate'er I name 
From the cataract's roar to the call of game. 

I chill for a while in the Arctic zones. 
And I swelter galore beneath tropic suns 
Till my heart at last such a pastime shuns. 

[152] 



Then homeward I hie and thank my stars 
That I can travel like Hermes or Mars, 
Win the battle's trophies, without its scars. 

Ah, yes, there are joys by the world untried, 
And 'tis well with the heart content to bide 
In the genial bounds of the fireside. 

For 'tis little at best the heart can hold, 

And 'tis well if it be not over bold 

In its search for thing-s to have and to hold. 

—Linden Hall Echo, Jan., 1905 



RESIGNATION 

One day I saw^ a butterfly, 

A lovely but a feeble thing, 
Beating against the casement high 

AA'ith gold and purple wing. 

I threw the window o])en wide 
Below. Above it beat in vain, 

Blindly fluttering from side to side, 
Battling in useless pain. 

Sinking at last half dead it drew 

The entering breath of blossoms rare, 

Then spread its purple wing-s and flew 
Off in the sun-lit air. 

Thus, thought I, do we mortals beat 
Against the bars of circumstance, 

The door God opens at our feet 
We miss in the wild dance 

Our uncurbed passions lead us till 
Fainting we sink in the vain strife 

With the crushed heart and broken will 
Loved by the Lord of Life. 



[153] 



And then we see the open door, 

And see God's sunshine streaming- through, 
Then we our own vain strife deplore 

And try to Hve anew. 

— Tlie Lititz Express 



A MOTHER'S PRECEPTS 

(from the GERMAN OF LANGBEIN) 

A mouse of tender age 

Set out the world to view, 
But found herself beset with fear. 

And all things strange and new. 

So back she came with speed. 

Parental counsel sought. 
" Mother, how shall I bear myself 

Since I am all untaught.'' 

** Many the forms I see, 

But know not friend from foe, 

And so my terrors have no end. 
I know not what to do. 

"An adventure I had 

Of dangerous kind, I ween. 

Into a barn a monster came, 
A form with awful mien. 

" His step was proud and bold, 
His brow with passion glowed. 

And, as he walked, a pointed spur 
Upon each foot he showed. 

" He flapped his w^ings with noise 

In fear I sought to fly. 
But though he opened wide his jaws. 

He only gave a cry. 

[154] 



" But one I saw beyond, 

A form of g'race divine, 
With eyes that grleamed hke Hving stars. 

Yet gentle and benign. 

" She seemed on flowers to tread, 

Noiseless her step and slow, 
She stroked her cheek with velvet paw, 

As soft and white as snow. 

''A-glow with love and joy 

For friendship I had sued, 
Had not the monster barred my way 

In threatening attitude." 

" Thank him," the mother said, 

*'He saved you from a foe. 
It was the sly and cunning cat 

Whose presence charmed you so ! 

'' Despite his swaggering noise 

The cock is well inclined. 
The blusterer you need not fear, 

But shun the creepin^g kind ! " 

— The Lititz Express 



A PRESENTIMENT AND A PRAYER 

There is a weight on my heart to-night, 

A stone about my neck. 
Is it a wrong I failed to right? 

A life I helped to wreck? 

Is it a shadow of wrong that's past, 

Or shade of ill to come 
That o'er my heart its gloom has cast, 

A foretaste of my doom? 

O, can it be that a word of mine, 

Spoken in wrath or jest, 
Has turned a soul from Thy blest shrine. 

Or robbed a heart of rest? 

[155] 



Was ever done a deed of mine 

That sent a soul to hell? 
That made the hot blood leap like wine? 

Or tolled a funeral bell? 

O Christ, Thou of the nail-pierced hand, 
Christ of the thorn-crowned brow, 

'Tis Thou alone canst understand 
And canst forgive me now. 

Thou knowest what I might have done, 

Or what I yet may do, 
Thou knowest that my heart is prone 

To work the deeds I rue. 

Thou knowest well that I would be 

Like Thee, the pure and just, 
Though I should do the things I'd flee. 

Frail child of sin and dust. 

Do Thou lead me. I cannot walk 

Alone. I am so weak ! 
Let Thy blest Spirit through me talk ; 

Without I cannot speak. 

Then am I sure to do no wrong. 

Nor Jead a soul astray. 
Then in my weakness am I strong 

To walk the narrow way. 

If shadows e'er should come between 

Again in coming years, 
Be they the shades of others' sin. 

While others claim my tears ! 

— The Moravian, Oct. 21, 1903 



THE DESERTED NEST 

There was a brown house in a hollow, 

Hard by a dim, dark wood. 
But the blows of the ax now follow 

Where erst the old trees stood. 



156 



Sweet sang- the shy birds of the wildwood 

Around it night and morn, 
And the merry laughter of childhood 

Upon the ear was borne. 

But the little brown house stands lonely, 

Deserted to this day, 
Of a happy household one only 

Lingers to weep and pray. 

Ah, she mourns for the vanished glory 

Of woodland deep and dim, 
Yea, she mourns for each giant hoary, 

Each broken trunk and Umb 

That the little old house once guarded 

From cold and winter's' blast, 
Or ever with its green arms warded 

From heat within the past. 

She mourns for the merry laughter 

That made the woodland ring. 
For the children have followed after 

The birds ; they're all a wing. 

The trees and the birds and the children 

Ha\e vanished to this day. 
The only one tireless watcher 

Lingers to weep and pray. 

—Lancaster New Era, March 2, 190J, 



KING PHILIP 

We know but too well from the tales men tell 

Of the red man's woeful fate, 
How his footsteps fail 'fore the white man's trail 

From Maine to the Golden Gate. 

At that tale of blood our hearts have stood 

Almost still with fear and shame. 
Alas for the greed that givfeth no heed 

To a brother in His name ! 



1^57] 



Alas for the race whose name and place 
Now the white man knows no more ! 

Once strong and free in his own countree. 
He begs at the white man's door. 

Like to many a chief that but came to griei 

Through pale face greed and lust, 
King Philip in pride long his foe defied, 

But his soul was great and just. 

While his foes increased, like a hunted beast 

He turned as his power grew less. 
Full well he knew that his friends they slew 

And heavy was his distress. 

And the country round men could hear the sound 

Of savage warfare rage. 
Amid swamp and fen he had made his den. 

For the king was swift and sage. 

They saw his track where the smoke hung black 

Over burning towm and farm, 
And they saw him fly where the midnight sky 

Blushed crimson at war's alarm. 

They would starve him out, but round and a1)out 

V/here the English built a fort 
He swam on a raft, and the Indians laughed. 

For his flight was swift and short. 

Then again he went and the message sent 

To tribes that were far away, 
To Chief Canonchet, of Narraganset, 

Who took his part that day. 

When the snow lay deep in swamp and on steep 

Came a mighty English host, 
And once more betrayed by a renegade 

The Indian's cause was lost. 

The fight waged long, for the foe was strong, 

But the sachem fled at last. 
Of all bereft, but a handful left, 

Of a force of veteran cast. 

[158] 



But their shrieks of fear as in their rear 

They left l^urning fort and homes, 
And could hear the cries, as in fiendish wise, 

The pale foe in living tombs 

Their children small, their wives and their all. 

E'en the men of age destroyed. 
Made for once to smart the long hardened heart 

Of warriors of pity void. 

Canonchet, the brave, would not be a slave 
To the foreigner's guile and greed. 

Nor would he betray his friend but would stay 
Most true in his direst need. 

Shorn of all his strength he must fall at length, 

But unshaken, undismayed. 
Ah, the pale of face can show but small grace 

To heroes of darker shade. 

He said, '' It is well I die ere men tell 

Unworthy deeds of me. 
Ere I faint and speak the words of the weak." 

He did not, as all agree. 

The death of his friend now brought near the end 

Of Philip, the hapless king. 
Forsaken by all, the proud Indian's fall 

Lacked not e'en the final sting. 

For the men wdio w^ere fed by his bounty led 

The enemy to his lair. 
Where untamed of will and majestic still 

He crouched in his despair. 

Like a spectre wild, shorn of rank and child, 
He wandered where once he reigned. 

The last of the few who still were true 
His blood the marshes stained. 

Yea. such was the fate of the man whom hate 

Still deprives of justice due. 
Of a king whose wrong in no poet's song 

Has been granted pity true. 

■ [159] 



Yet sure it is meet that the heart which beat 

In a hero's breast be shown, 
And let me but crave one tear for his grave 

Though dishonored and unknown. 



MY WEALTH 

I never owned a foot of land 

Nor yet a pile of stone. 
There never was a hill of sand 

That I might call my own, 
And yet I hold the right of way 

Wherever eye can range. 
Mine is an undisputed sway 

That knows no loss nor change. 

I own the palace of the rich, 

I own the poor man's cot, 
I'm lord of forest, farm and ditch, 

Of waste and garden plot, 
I own the starry worlds on high, 

The sea, the cataract. 
For others' wealth I never sigh 

For all is mine in fact. 

For mine is the unfettered mind, 

The kingdom of my soul. 
And that nor time nor space can bind, 

Nor set it let nor goal. 
I wander where my eye would list, 

And where my thought can go, 
I sail the seas of amethyst 

Bathed in the sunset's glow. 

Some sell their souls for shining gold, 

But what is gold to me? 
The things I have I scarcely hold, 

I own what I can see. 

[i6o] 



Possession is but half a claim, 

A slave to fickle fate, 
And wealth too oft is but a name 

To stir the rabble's hate. 

\\^ho has no claim to land nor pelf 

Feels little tie to earth. 
He need but yield his inner self 

To God who g-ave him birth. 
There's but a step from star to star 

And so the soul can wing 
Her flight beyond the narrow bar 

Of death without a sting. 



THE ROSE OF JERICHO 

(from the GERMAN OF MEHEMED ALl) 

They bloom, the roses of Jericho, 

Wondrous fiery red ; 
They say that the Savior's blood did so 

Dye them when he was dead. 

In summer and winter flourish they 

Wondrous fiery red; 
Their green leaves never know decay 

Since Jesus Christ is dead. 

Sir Godfrey sent from the Holy Land, 

Wondrous fiery red. 
His lady a rose by a foreign hand 

An hour ere he was dead. 

And as with the rose in full bloom they came, 

Wondrous fiery red, 
To the castle where dwelt the noble dame 

With tidings that he was dead 

She pressed the rose with weeping eyes. 

Wondrous fiery red. 
Above were the frosty Northern skies 

And beneath the icy dead. 



i6i ] 



In a few short hours they have paled 

Her splendid glowing red. 
Perhaps she, white and pale, bewailed 

That the lady fair was dead? 

The legend thus. Yet in Jericho ' 

To-day bloom fiery red 
The roses that Jesus Christ once so 

Colored when he was dead. 

In summer and winter flourish they 

Wondrous fiery red ; 
Their green leaves never know decay. 

They have no death to dread. 

— The Lititz Express, 188^ 



LONGING FOR FREEDOM 

I am longing for the quiet and the fragrance of the wood ; 
Where Dame Nature reigns unhindered it is easy to be 

good. 
I am tired of the clamor and the squalor of the street, 
I am weary of the tramping of a thousand pairs of feet. 

To what end this ceaseless striving? For what use this 
endless toil? 

That the strands we daily strengthen of the ropes that 
round us coil. 

While we sweat for bread and butter we are weaving- 
shrouds amain. 

And the wealth which some are heaping means but pleni- 
tude of pain. 

We are bartering rosy childhood and the freshness of 

youth's bloom 
For an age unloved and cheerless, for the haunting sense 

of doom. 
When the soul growls old in striving swift decays the 

body's shell. 
And the battered hulks some tenant seem like vestibules of 

hell. 

[ 162 1 



We have little time lor thinking, scarcely have we time to 

feel, 
We have lost the art of praying since our gods are near 

and real. 
All the things that are worth having, all the things we 

truly need 
We are sacrificing daily on the altar of our greed. 

Sacrificing simple pleasures, sacrificing health and prime, 
Sacrificing love and duty, all high ideals and sublime. 
Sacrificing all our dreaming, all achievement true and vast, 
For the bitter Sodom apple, for the things that cannot last. 

O, the ceaseless whirr and blinding, as if life were a ma- 
chine. 

And each human soul an atom with no conscious power 
within ! 

O, the seething human cauldron, oh, the dizzy dervish 
dance ! 

O, the snorting of the war horse and the flashing of the 
lance! 

I would fly from all this turmoil, I would flee from all 

this glare 
To the silence of the forest, to the wild beast in his lair. 
For the fox is much less cunning and the wolf is much 

more kind 
Than the worshippers of Mammon, deaf to human need 

and blind. 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, Aug. 21, 1906 



GOOD FRIDAY 

Amid that startled multitude 
Dread stillness reigned around. 

After that din of voices rude 
Was heard no mortal sound. 

Upon the sunless land did brood 
A silence vast, profound. 

[ 163 ] 



Three crosses rose upon the hill, 

Three crosses g-aunt and stark, 
And One there hung who knew no ill 

'Twixt malefactors dark, 
For evil men had done their will 

Upon that shining mark. 

The jeering lip and mocking tongue 

Of Scribe and Pharisee, 
The taunting of the ribald throng 

And pagan soldiery 
Died like spent waves the storm had flung 

On shores of Galilee. 

And there they stood the cross below, 

The women meek and mild. 
Their hearts were broken by their woe. 

The mother mourned her Child. 
Ah, none that mother's grief may know 

Save He whom men reviled. 

The little band that kept His word, 

A handful, weak and poor, 
They stood afar and mourned their Lord. 

Their faith might scarce endure 
The test of all they'd seen and heard 

And burn up bright and pure. 

The rocks are rent, the dead arise, 

And yonder temple vail 
Doth part. In vain your sacrifice, 

Ye canting priests, who fail 
To know the Lamb, whom prophets wise 

In ages past did hail. 

The conflict's o'er, and once again 

Behold the welcome sun ! 
From their dumb terror wakening men 

Find their salvation won. 
Through endless ages tongue and pen 

Shall laud the Risen One! 

—Lancaster Intelligencer, April 13, 1906 

[ 164 ] 



THE CHAPEL BELLS 

(mARY DIXON MEMORIAL CHAPEL AT LINDEN HALL SEMINARY) 

Let Irish hearts the " Shandon Bells " 
Enshrine in thoughts full loving, 

For he who wrote the poem tells 
What made their tones so moving. 

And Schiller's " Bell," ah, may it ring 

In German hearts forever ; 
Through untold ages may it fling 

Its brazen tongue's last quiver. 

Let all the bells that ever thrived 

In history or fiction, 
Let all the chimes that ever lived 

In sweet poetic diction 

Let all the bells immortalized 

In sonnet or in story. 
And e'en the bell our nation prized 

As herald of its glory 

Grow dumb and seek inglorious rest ; 

With ours they cannot grapple. 
Our bells are still the sweetest, best, 

The bells of our Chapel. 

Our bells ring out a tribute due 

To tender love paternal. 
And rear to human sound and view 

A monument supernal. 

Our bells enshrine in memory dear 

A picture time shades finer 
Of one who left her girlhood here 

For womanhood diviner. 

Our bells mark out the daily round 

Of duties light or solemn. 
At work or play we hear the sound, 

And gazing at yon column 

[ 165 ] 



We see the brazen triad swing 

Free in the breath of heaven, 
And think no triple crowned king 

Such pomp had ever given. 

Ah, students all of former days, 

Your woeful need confessing. 
You cannot, as the poet says. 

Count ignorance a blessing ! 

And students too, of later times, 
Who love our bells so truly. 
Ah, listen to the pleasant chimes 
You too have heard but newly 

And bear their memory in your heart, 

Of happy days a token. 
And keep it of yourselves a part 

Till earthly ties are broken. 

— Linden Hall Echo, March, 1906 



A CHANGE 

Of yore when we walked together 
I walked to be with my friend, 

Little I heeded the weather, 

The talk, not the walk, was my end. 

Now I walk for the love of the flowers, 
The sky, the trees and the birds, 

Though my friend may talk for hours 
I hear without heeding the words. 



THE WANDERING JEW 

Upon the Galilean strand 

He walked and talked with Christ of yore. 
And now He walks through every land 

Forevermore. 



i66] 



He saw the Roman sun decline, 
He saw the Grecian's glory fade, 

Full many constellations shine 
And sink in shade. 

Within the Occidental sky 

The planets rose and planets fell. 

But one there rode undimmed and high. 
He knew it well. 

He saw the grand old temple fall, 
His people scattered far and wide, 

The Moslem reigning over all 
With upstart pride. 

His people, scorned by every race. 
Were hunted, hounded and oppressed, 

Nowhere they found a dwelling place. 
Their feet a rest. 

Afar beyond the western seas 
He saw a youngling planet rise. 

The vision of Hesperides 
To aching eyes. 

He saw the hunted of the earth 
Flock thither to yon halcyon isle, 

Flis people too had found a berth 
A little while. 

He saw what art and science wrought. 
He saw the world created new, 

And wondrous things surpassing thought. 
So strange yet true. 

He saw the envoys of the King 

Uncrowned on earth and spit upon 

All nations to subjection bring 
Beneath the sun. 

He saw, and yet no tongue can say 

What that strange phantom still may see 

Before the awful judgment day 
That is to be 



167 



When that weird curse shall be removed, 
And he with millions more shall bow 

And kiss the feet of the Beloved 
With prostrate brow. 



A ROSE 

Suggested by the Feast of Roses at Manheim, L,ancaster Co., Pa., founded bj' Baron 
Steigel, when the annual rental of a rose is paid by the members of Zion I^utheran 
church to descendents of the Baron. 

A rose, a rose, a red, red rose, 
As sweet a thing as aught that grows. 
What can it to an old man mean? 
What but a phantom of a dream? 

What ! Can a red rose compensate 
For persecution, envy, hate? 
Can he the bitter past forget, 
Charmed by its odorous coronet? 

Ah, yes, he can, he will, he may, 
For back it brings a brighter day. 
It's ruby heart reminds him of 
The tender heart of his young love. 

The flush of health is on his cheek. 

He is no longer old and weak, 

The fire of youth is in his eye ; 

He vaults with young Ambition high. 

He sees the crimson blood he shed 
Upon the field of battle red. 
The dream of glory nerves his arm. 
He revels amid war's alarm. 

He sees the rose fade from one face 
Whose beauty time can ne'er erase. 
He sees her 'neath the roses sleep 
While falling petals lie full deep. 

He sees amid the gloom a star, 
The land of promise beckoning far, 



i68] 



A land of flowers and of gold 
Where speed the sunny hours untold. 

But there his brightest dreams must fade 

As last year's roses lie decayed. 

The monarch of a vast domain 

He wears the debtor's galling chain. 

He sees his kindred 'round him fall 
As roses from the garden wall 
When fierce November winds bloAV chill 
And leaves lie thick in vale and hill. 

He sees the strength forsake his frame, 
A tottering child, yet not the same 
That knelt beside his mother's knee. 
He feels his life's joys from him flee. 

Again, he sees the sacrifice 
Of One who for his brethren dies, 
A God who shed his blood like wine 
'Mid lilies red of Palestine. 

All this — who knows and how much more?- 
The old man sees. The rose's core 
The sunlight fills with crimson fire, 
Fit torch to light his funeral pyre. 



THE LAST CHRISTIAN MARTYR 

Two stalwart men of iron frame 
Upon the wide arena came 
To die for gold or idle fame 

A Roman mob to please, 
Two gladiators, trained to fight, 
Like beasts of prey who tear and bite, 
To cater to a beast's delight. 

Such heroes bold Avere these. 

[ 169 ] 



Their little game prepared the way 
For greater shows upon that day, 
For Christians in a bloody fray 

With fiercer beasts should lead. 
The gladiators could but whet 
The mob's cruel appetite and set 
The tune to which the martyrs met 

The doom their faith decreed. 

A hundred thousand pairs of eyes, 
A thousand varying shouts and cries 
At once the fighting pair apprise 

No mercy they need ask. 
Saluting Caesar now they faced 
Each other while in murderous haste 
The blows reigned thick and blood encased 

Their features like a mask. 

What brought that apparition there, 
An aged man with snow white hair, 
Whose head and feet alike were bare, 

A prophet sure or priest? 
He bade the swarthy fighters hold 
Their bloody hands, he sternly told 
Them that this wicked pageant old 

Upon that day had ceased. 

The gladiators paused in awe. 

Which soon the watchful audience saw, 

And then from every cruel jaw 

There burst a hissing sound 
Like volumes of escaping steam 
From some vast geyser's scalding stream, 
Or such as one might almost deem 

Issued from hell's dark bound. 

'' Back, back, old man ! " He heard them not. 
He stood as rooted to the spot. 
All but his task divine forgot. 
Then came a deafening shout : 

[170] 



" Down ! Cut him down ! " and down he fell, 
But o'er his prostrate form the knell 
Of those fierce sports conceived in hell 
Was rung beyond a doubt. 

And now the Colosseum stands 

A ruin famed throughout all lands, 

And grass grows green where once the sands 

Were red with human gore. 
The empire where the Caesars reigned, 
Where captive kings were scourged and chained 
Where Christian temples were profaned 

Our annals know no more. 



MY BIRTHDAY 

Once more the annual day comes round 

When Life and I first met, 
A day by some with laughter crowned, 

By others with regret. 

I cannot say I'm loath to greet 
Thy homely face once more. 

Nor am I glad thy form to meet. 
As many times of yore. 

Thou hast been kind to me, my friend, 

More so than I deserve, 
Didst thou remain thus to the end 

I'd have no cause to swerve 

From my devotion unto thee 

In hours or bright or sad. 
In my desire myself to be 

The best friend we have had. 

Life has not blest me with great wealth 
And hence with little pride. 

But it has mostly spared me health ; 
This cannot be denied. 

[171] 



Of learning, pleasure, love and fame 

It could not spare a jot, 
But it has left an honest name 

To grace my humble lot. 

And it has given me friends, a few 

Than earthly goods more ^ dear. 
More kindly than the healing dew 

Upon the meadows sere. 

It too has taught me how to drink 

From rills of ancient lore, 
To pluck the flowers from the brink 

Where sages quaffed of yore. 

And when I see my neighbors bend 

Beneath the weary load. 
When I am called my aid to lend 

The fainting by the road 

I turn to greet thy pleasant face — 

True friend to me thou art — 
And thank Life for its sparing grace. 

I'm thankful from my heart ! 

And ever as thy form returns 

I'm nearer to that goal 
For which my fainting spirit yearns, 

Sweet mansion of the soul. 

Should we meet here no more on earth 

\\'e'll meet 'neath fairer skies, 
Where endless years shall crown thy dearth, 

And friendship never dies. 

Decemhei^ 2, 1900 



[172] 



GETTYSBURG 

There's quiet on the hills to-night 

Lit by the setting sun, 
No armed host now frets the sight, 

No sound is there of gun 
Though two score years ago the fight 

Raged till the day was done. 

Within their green and grassy bed 

Victor and vanguished lie 
In tranquil sleep. Can those be dead 

Whose memory cannot die? 
Whose names no age shall pass unread? 

No tongue their deeds decry? 

And comrades now are those who erst 

Were foemen on the field, 
Where death the cruel fetters burst 

Which long their hearts had steeled. 
Razing the wall of wrong accursed 

That soul from soul concealed. 

But while we render homage due 

To these, our noble brave. 
Shall we forget the men that knew 

To rescue and to save 
A tortured people, though their due 

Might be a nameless grave? 

Some deem the age of heroes past, 

Declare us selfish, cold. 
But no! while human tears flow fast 

And men do wrong for gold, 
So long Columbia's bugle blast 

Will call us as of old. 

And not as foemen, side by side. 

As these who lie asleep, 
We'll follow with one flag our guide 

The wide world's peace to keep. 
No Gettysburg can now divide 

A Union broad and deep. 

I i/.s ] 



PARTED 

ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD PLAYMATE 

Do you remember how we played, 

You and I together, 
All day long within the shade 

Through the sunny weather? 

Do you remember how we sat 

By the winter fire, 
Telling stories till our chat 

Drowned the storm king's ire? 

Do you remember how we loved. 

Fondly loved each other? 
I to you a sister proved, 

You to me a brother. 

Do you remember how we dreamed 

Of the future golden? 
All life then a vision seemed. 

While our eyes were holden. 

Do you remember how a part 

Through the years we drifted? 
Time and distance from the heart 

Its illusions lifted. 

Do you remember how you lay 

On your last bed sleeping? 
Sadly then I turned away, 

Turned away with weeping. 

Will you remember when we meet 

At the throne in heaven? 
Will you know me? Will you greet 

All the past forgiven? 

February 10, 1901 



[174] 



MY GARDEN 

My soul is like a garden fair, 

It takes such constant tending there 

To keep the weeds from growing, 
I once had thought the place well kept, 
But some one entering while I slept 

Sowed here without my knowing. 

And then I labored hard and long 
To kill the roots so big and strong 

The soil's strength boldly stealing. 
The plants had sickly grown meanwhile, 
All owing to the foeman's guile, 

And my own sloth revealing. 

My soul is like a garden fair. 
Since I have placed it in His care 

No foeman dares to enter. 
Where once the poisonous weeds were sown 
The plants of beauty strong have grown. 

Love's sunshine now their centre. 

My soul is like a garden fair. 

I find such pleasant fruitage there 

All of the Gardener's planting. 
If I but let Him prune and trim 
Each plantlet as it suiteth Him 

Good fruit will not be wanting. 

My soul is like a garden fair. 

Sweet flowers bloom so brightly there 

To gladden all surrounding. 
The lilies and the roses grow, 
The violets and carnations blow, 

In fragrance too abounding. 

My soul is like a garden fair. 
The sunshine and the showers there 
Will let no green thing languish. 

[ 175 ] 



The heavenly Gardener sendeth them, 
With loving care He tendeth them, 
With sorrow oft and anguish. 

My soul is like a garden fair. 
May no destroyer enter there 

To spoil its fine appearing, 
To grieve the gentle Gardener e'er, 
And render vain His watchful care 

O'er plants of tender rearing. 

My soul be like a garden fair. 
May nothing ever flourish there 

But plants of Heaven's keeping! 
And may no noxious vermin sweep 
Its fair expanse the while I sleep ! 

May angels do the reaping. 

—The Moravian, July 29, 1903 



THE WHITE SLAVES OF TO-DAY 

According to the census of 1900 there were in that year 1,752,187 children admittedly 
employed in gainful occupations in the United States. Then there are thousands of 
child toilers in the tenements of great cities who are not included in the census re- 
turns. 

The kingdoms of the ancient world, like mushrooms in a 

day, 
Sprang- up and flourished splendidly and then they passed 

away. 
But they were builded all on blood and so they could not 

stand, 
While mounds and ruined sepulchers they left on every 

hand. 

And we are carving kingdoms yet from human blood and 

brawn, 
We raise our structures to the sky till the millenial dawn. 
Confusion once on Babel fell that rose on Shinar's plain. 
Our Babels rise on every side where commerce holds its 

rei""n. 



176 



The stones are from the nursery our architect employs, 
The death traps of our smoky mills are filled with girls 

and boys. 
The pagan's infant sacrifice to Moloch we deplore 
While babes are feeding furnace fires before our very door. 

A million of them (think, oh man, if one w^ere but thine 

own !) 
Are passing daily to their doom and no one hears their 

moan. 
A million little, helpless ones sent to be clothed and fed 
Are passing through a hell on earth to join the quiet dead. 

They perish in the noxious airs of tenement and mine, 
They suffer 'mid the drudgery of factories w^ith no sign, 
With maimed and stunted bodies, with souls deformed 

and killed 
We raise our giant industries, our millionaires Ave build. 

We slew the flower of the land, like water shed our blood 
To free the black man years ago, and that was very good. 
No more the hunted Negro hides within the dismal 

swamp. 
A million little captives crouch in cellars dark and damp. 

The kingdoms of the old world fell as their foundation 

stones 
Were reeking with the blood of slaves and built of human 

bones ; 
The fabrics of our States to-day must sink (for God is 

just!) 
And our slave-built fortunes crumble into oblivion's dust. 
— The Lancaster Intelligencer , Jan. 28, 1907 



THE POET 

He went forth in the bloom of youth 
And in the pride of power. 

With him went Love and holy Truth 
And Joy, his only dower. 

[177] 



He met the sneer of cruel Scorn, 

Ethereal Joy took flight, 
Then Avarice crossed his path one morn 

And Love was gone ere night. 

'Twas then that Worldly Wisdom came 

To counsel and advise, 
Truth hung her head in conscious shame. 

While tear-drops filled her eyes. 

He shrank before misfortune's blast. 

The stings of poverty, 
Truth left him, loyal to the last, 

Starvation's pangs to flee. 

And now he wanders o'er the earth 

A broken, worthless thing, 
A creature of ethereal birth 

And yet he cannot sing ! 



HOME SWEET HOME 

AN INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR 

Along the Rappahannock's sides 

Two armies camp together 
W^hile but a small ravine divides 

The Union from the other. 

To-night they rest, to-morrow fight 

And rage in bloody battle. 
While smoke obscures fair heaven's light 

And loud the cannon rattle. 

They sit and dream to-night of those 

By firesides fondly waiting 
For the beloved whom with foes 

Grim death will soon be mating. 

At last is heard a pleasant sound, 

A band is " Dixie " playing. 
And now the Union band is bound, 

Its loyal hearts betraying, 

[178] 



To strike the tune they know so well 

And love, old " Yankee Doodle." 
By " Maryland " again men tell 

The South, as Swiss by yodel. 

And now the Union band began 

The tune, " Star Spangled Banner." 
Sure that appeals to every man 
Or youth born to the manor! 

There was a pause, and " Home, Sweet Home " 

Upon the air fell sweetly. 
Upon those armies silence dumb 

And awe there fell completely. 

The night was dark, the camp was still, 

Two bands strike up in union. 
They play the same tune with a will 

And hearts beat in communion. 

Though severed far by pride and hate, 

Divided in opinion. 
Their hearts beat solely, soon or late, 

For home in one dominion. 

Once more they meet 'mid shell and shot. 

And brother slayeth brother, 
But love of home in each burns hot; 

For that they fight each other. 

And since the score has long been paid 
And feuds no more are cherished 

The flowers on the graves are laid 
Where ancient hates have perished. 



179] 



MY DREAM 

A cottage in a mossy dell, 

And some one nigh to love me, 
A purling stream or bubbling well 

And the blue sky above me. 
Dark, spicy pines where sweet birds sing, 

A book for stormy weather. 
Come friend, abroad thy troubles fling, 

And we'll go there together. 



THE WARNING 

One day through the streets of fair Johnstown 
A horse and rider came flying down. 
Whence came that rider and whence that steed ? 
And why such haste? Who could see the need 



The horse was covered with foam and sweat. 
And the rider hailed each man that he met : 
" The flood ! The flood ! To the mountains fly ! 
The time is short. Delay and you die ! " 

Some doubted, some mocked, some did not hear. 
On, on he went with his message of fear. 
They were bent on pleasure, on love, on gain, 
And the awful warning was sounded in vain. 

All smiling and fair the city lay 
In her strength and pride on that fateful day. 
Sure no doom so dire could be in store ! 
The man was a fool and nothing more. 

On went the mad race from street to street, 
But the pitiless flood was still more fleet. 
The city awoke to its doom at last 
When all hope of rescue, alas, was past. 

[ 180I 



Through the turmoil of earth God's prophets are sent 

To call mankind to arise and repent. 

Men mock and rail. Ah, little they care, 

Till the sound of His coming brings only despair. 



NONE OF THESE 

(from THB GERMAN OF GOETHK) 

If you will take the servant's place 
No one will pity your disgrace ; 
Should you the master's office fill 
The world will brook it quite as ill, 
As you were born should you remain, 
There's nothing in you, folks maintain. 



BABOUSCKA 

(a RUSSIAN legend) 

When the wind blows high and the night is cold 
Babouscka is out on her quest, as of old. 
When the snow falls thick as it whitens the plain 
It is nothing to her. She is seeking again. 
Ah, she wanders far and she wanders wide. 
Led along by the bells of the Christmas tide. 
As in wonder men ask what takes her so far, 
*' I'm in quest," she replies, "of the track of a star." 

She has loaded a big, heavy bag on her back. 
Of toys and of goodies there is no lack, 
And the children she meets with wherever she goes 
Will receive their full share, as every one knows. 
Yea, the youngest and weakest she cannot pass by, 
And the tears trickle down from her faded old eye 
As she bends o'er the cradle, the crib or the bed 
Where she finds on the pillow an infant's small head. 

^^^ouldst thou know why Babouscka abides not at home, 
The reason why old and forlorn she must roam 

1 i8i 1 



Through the darkest of nights and the coldest of days 
Where the snow drifts are piled in pathless highways 
As she seeks the track in the sky of a star, 
And the children on earth, both the near and the far. 
Though her wandering and searching are ever in vain, 
Having missed the one clew to the kings and their train? 

We are told that in ages of long, long ago. 

Ere the years came to rob her fair cheek of its glow, 

Babouscka, who lived where the forest gleamed gray, 

Had been sweeping her hut on a wild, stormy day 

W^hen adown the lone road she discovered a sight 

That filled her with wonder and even affright. 

There were camels and men, three crowned kings led the 

train, 
And straight to her hut all seemed speeding amain. 

She fastened her door with bolt and with bar 

And refused to be seen by those coming from far. 

Now the caravan halted in front of her door. 

And such knocking none ever had heard of before. 

Though she heard it she seemed not to listen or heed. 

While the wanderers ceased not to urge and to plead. 

" We are strangers," they said, " wilt thou show us the 

way 
We have lost in the midst of the storm this wild day? 

" We are seeking a wondrous, a princely Child, 

And a star is our guide through the desert's bleak wild. 

But all vision to-night is obscured by the snow. 

So we seek for one here who the pathway might know. 

Ask thy price; 'twill be paid, be it gems or red gold. 

For the treasure is great which our stout bags can hold." 

Forth at last came Babouscka and saw but too well 

That the story seemed true they had striven to tell. 

As she stood at the door she could see the three kings 
With their gorgeous trappings and beautiful things. 
But she thought of the darkness, the storm and the road 
And her answer was brief. She would not go abroad. 
She knew naught of a child and she did not care 

[ 182] 



Thus to leave the snug home in the dim forest there, 
Or mayhap she would go on the morrow at morn. 
But they could not abide in a place so forlorn. 

So the caravan left and Babouscka was fain 

To see them depart o'er the whitening plain, 

For they hastened aw^ay and passed out of her sight 

Moving mountains of snow in the gathering night. 

On the morn she arose with a strange, vague unrest 

That forever thereafter gnawed deep in her breast. 

Was it all a wild dream? No, it could not be 

For too well she remembered the crowned kings three. 

Then she thought of the Child whom they'd sought from 

afar. 
Led along by the rays of the wonderful star. 
Had they found Him or not, and would she be to blame 
H they failed when they had not told her His name? 
Would to Heaven she had listened to pleadings so sore 
Since she well knew the road as it led from her door. 
From henceforth she must seek through the desert's bleak 

wild 
For the home and the name of the wonderful Child. 

She has sought for long years. She is seeking Him still 

With a zeal that ne'er flags and a tireless will. 

So this is the cause, as we oft have been told. 

Of the roaming abroad of Babouscka, the old. 

Of her tenderest care for each dear little child, 

Of her search for the Christ, for the holy and mild. 

In each smiling- babe she bends fondly above 

W^ith her eyes full of tears and her heart full of love. 



THE SIRENS 

I can see the white sails glisten 
Out u])on the sunlit sea. 

And my restless heart will listen 
To the forms that beckon me. 

( 183 ] 



I can see the islands yonder, 
Bounded by the purple sky, 

Where the happy spirits wander 

Wrapped in blissful dreams for aye. 

Siren voices, yea, I hear you. 
Heard you in the long ago. 

But I will no longer fear you. 

Since your mystic charms I know. 

Ye do beckon in the present. 
As ye beckoned in the past. 

Though your promises are pleasant 
Ye will but mislead at last. 

False mirage it is, I know it, 
It would dazzle for a day. 

While it would ensnare the poet 
Souls would perish by the way. 

Ah, the scented air is freighted 
With the incense of the tomb, 

And the winged forms are weighted 
With the atmosphere of doom. 

Ye may beckon, ye may call me 

To a fancied Paradise. 
Your sweet voices but appal me. 

With their undertone of sighs. 



A PLEA FOR THE TRAVELER 

BY A STAY-AT-HOME 

You who scour land and sea 
Bid me be content at home. 

But content I cannot be. 

All the world is bound to roam. 

Life is but half lived, I trow, 
If we linger in one spot. 



[184] 



Vain is all this wondrous show 
Spread for us who see it not. 

He who piled the Alps and set 
Still lakes at their craggy feet. 

Built Gibralter's parapet 

AVhere two oceans seem to meet ; 

Sowed Ionian waters blue 

With a hundred isles and more, 

Where a generous Nature knew 
How to lavish all her store ; 

Made Niagara's thunders roll, 
Dug the canons of the West, 

All the world from pole to pole 
In a robe of splendor dressed; 

He who gave the hand to make. 
And the fertile brain to plan 

All the wonders that awake 
Due respect of man for man, 

From the hoary pyramid 

To the white mosque's glittering pile, 
And the artist's visions hid 

In the dim cathedral aisle. 

From the vine-clad hills of France 
To the blue Rhine's castled steep, 

Ivy-covered English manse, 
Ancient cities buried deep ; 

He who made that man should bind 
Continents with ribs of steel. 

Scour the universe and find 

Thousand means his course to wheel 

On the sea and in the air, 
Girdle every mountain peak, 

Till he hews a thoroughfare 
Rivaling the lightning's freak ; 

[ 185 ] 



Did He mean that we should stay 
Shut up in one narrow place? 

Thousand times I tell you nay ! 
'Twere a libel on our race. 

From the dark-skinned race whose foot 
Knows no limit but the sun. 

To the Bedouin whose route 
With each day's anew begun. 

From Judea's exiled host 

To the redskin of the plain. 

From the Viking of the coast 
To the pirate of the main, 

From the man of gain in quest 
To the man in search of health. 

All are tramps. A wild unrest 
Harries poor and men of wealth. 

All the world is on the move, 
And you bid me stay at home ! 

All you tell me doth but prove 
I, like you, am made to roam. 

Pilgrims we and strangers all 
E'en on earth we may not bide. 

For each mortal, great or small. 
Sails at last across Death's tide. 



A MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD 

A garden kept by careful husbandman 
Grows rich and fair with fruit and plant and vine, 
Large beds where rows on rows of flowers shine 
In all the splendor of the floral clan. 

Old-fashioned blooms are these, gay holly-hocks, 
Snapdragons, buttercups, and marigolds, 
Larkspur, blue bells ; the ladies' slipper holds 
A motley show, o'ertop])ed by four-o'clocks. 

[ 186I 



The air is drowsy with the noontide heat, 
Heavy with perfume of the flowers and trees, 
Harmonious with the low-toned hum of bees 
That revel in a world so bright and sweet. 

And through it all there flits a brown-eyed child. 
Dreamy and quiet, with no hand to touch 
The beauteous things but given to wonder much 
At Nature's store, unstinted, rich and wild. 

That child has long to woman grown and learned 
Much of the wealth of Nature and her ways, 
But ah, the glamor of those summer days ! 
How oft her heart for them in vain has yearned ! 



THE LEGEND OF THE TWO WHITE CHARGERS 

'Mid the castles old and stately 
Whose gray ruins still stood lately 
Near the blue Rhine, haunted greatly 
By the tales the poets love, 

There is one that legend hoary 
Wove about so strange a story 
That a monument its glory 

And its truth in stone must prove. 

At a window still are standing 
Two white chargers on the landing 
Of a stairway, large, commanding 
All men's notice as they move 

Past the castle, and they wonder 
Wliat they mean, the horses yonder, 
As in marble sleep they ponder 
O'er the mysteries of earth. 

In that castle lived a baron, 
But one foe he could not war on, 
Hence it was that gloomy Charon 
Left him lone beside his hearth. 

[187] 



All the love so deep and tender 
That his wounded heart could render 
Poured he out in lavish splendor 
Without limit, without dearth, 

On one dear and lovely creature, 
Till each cold and pallid feature, 
As the warm glow 'gan to reach her 
Of the jewels, seemed to shine 

With a glory scarcely mortal, 
As of angel at the portal 
Of the city fair, immortal. 

Pictured by the scribe divine. 

Many a solemn mass and holy 
Priests had chanted. Sadly, slowly 
Was the lady laid so lowly 
In a tomb of rare design. 

Cold and silence reigned around her, 
But the death-like trance that bound her 
Broke. Two human ghouls had found her, 
Tempted by her raiment fair. 

Though the ponderous door soon yielded 
To the weapons that they wielded 
Yet the gentle dame was shielded 
With the jewels that she bare. 

As the coffin lid turned creaking 
Like a vision, without speaking. 
Rose the lady, and the sneaking 
Ruffians fled in wild despair. 

While a ghostly light burned dimly 
Many a shadow beckoned grimly 
From the niches, like unseemly 
Phantoms crouching in the dark. 

Stifling was the air and musty, 
With the mould of ages dusty, 

[i88] 



Iron locks were dull and rusty 

With the blight of old Time's mark. 

Puzzled, as from sleep awaking, 
Looked the lady at the quaking 
Villains as they vanished, shaking 
Out their lantern's feeble spark. 

Then her coffin walls so narrow 
Made her shiver to the marrow 
Suddenly, as if an arrow 

Pierced her beating heart at last. 

As she struggled, trembling, fainting. 
From the narrow bed, acquainting 
Her soul with the tomb no painting 
Could describe the horror vast 

That her bosom held that moment. 
Never had she known what woe meant 
Till her faltering steps so slow bent 
Toward the beam of moonlight cast 

Through the heavy door the fleeing 
Robbers left unfastened, freeing 
Thus the sweet and gentle being 
Prisoned by an unkind fate. 

On she tottered o'er the chiUing 
Roadside with weak steps but willing. 
All her inmost being thrilling. 
Could she reach the castle gate? 

While her tender feet were bleeding 
On she staggered, all unheeding. 
Freezing, stumbling, only feeding 
On tiie hope to reach her mate. 

In his chamber, but not sleeping, 
Nay, a sleepless vigil keeping, 
Full of sorrow beyond weeping 
Lay the baron on his bed. 

[ i8» ] 



For that day his dearest treasure, 
Her he loved above measure. 
Object of his pride and pleasure, 
Was low laid among the dead. 

Since the bride of months scarce numbered, 
With no years nor sorrow cumbered 
Now among- her fathers slumbered 
All his peace and hope had fled. 

Silence reigned, but not unbroken, 
For it seemed as one had spoken. 
Yea, it sounded like a token 

From the cold and silent tomb. 

As the baron rose and listened 
Something in the moonlight glistened, 
Something wraith-like, made of mist and 
Shadow, stepped forth from the gloom. 

And again the still air trembled. 
And he dreamed not nor dissembled. 
Ah ! how much that voice resembled 
Hers who perished in her bloom ! 

" Open, husband ! I am dying," 
Spoke the vision gently sighing. 
" Sure," he cried " thou must be lying. 
For my sweet wife died to-day. 

" 'Tis but some foul fiend's contriving. 
And the demon's bent on driving 
My sad soul, without due shriving. 
From its tenement of clay." 

" No, my husband, I was living. 
Had you known it all your grieving 
Had been spared, your heartless leaving. 
Jesu, let me in I pray." 

"Then indeed thou art a spirit 
And the masses had no merit. 

[ 190] 



Sure I thought thou wouldst inherit 
Heaven without mass or prayer! 

" Go, sweet spirit, do not haunt me ! 
Pity, love and do not taunt me 
With my failing. I will grant thee 
Masses countless as thy hair." 

Spoke the pallid wife with sinking 
Hope, her soul within her shrinking, 
'' Save me. In delay I'm thinking 
You will slay me unaware." 

" Rather than accept this fable 
I'll believe my steeds are able 
To come hither from their stable," 
Said the baron, hard and cold. 

Suddenly there was a prancing 
As if iron hoofs were dancing 
On the long stairs, strangely chancing 
To confirm the tale she told. 

Now the baron 'gan to shiver 

With an ague or a fever 

As the horses, with no driver, 

Stood behind him large and bold. 

'* Jesu ! Mary!" cried he calling 
On high heaven, and bore his falling 
\\ ife, who scarce survived the galling 
Ordeal, through the castle door. 

With long nursing, fond and loving, 
She grew strong in time, yet proving 
Faithful helpmate, and removing 
Doubts lest earthly bliss be o'er. 

But to keep his heart from growing 
Dull to pity and for showing 
To his children, all un-knowing. 
Stand the horses evermore. 

1 19. ] 



UNPREPARED 

As the Magi came from far, 
Guided by the wondrous star, 
Did they find Jerusalem 
For the fruit of Jesse's stem 
Waiting with a ready heart. 
Doors and portals wide apart? 

Deeply troubled was the king 
When he heard the marvelous thing, 
Questioned Scribe and Pharisee 
Where this new-born king should be, 
Feared a rival on the throne 
When the kingly child were grown. 

Troubled Pharisee and scribe 
At this tale of Judah's tribe, 
Troubled all the city too 
At this vision now come true, 
And the wise men left that day 
Never to return that way. 

Ah, those men were truly wise 
And they found a glad surprise. 
Found the king that they had sought, 
Offered gifts that they had brought, 
Then returned with great content 
To the farther Orient. 

But the king — the deed he did 
Such a one may God forbid! 
And the learned in the law? 
Never star nor child they saw ! 
And the people, what they missed 
Not a son of Abram wist. 

Though for thousand years they heard 
That in fleshly form the Word 
Would descend on earth to dwell 



192 



Sin and evil to dispel 

When the vision came not one 

Knew the Christ in Mary's son. 

It is ever thus with some ; 

They are blind when visions come, 

Shouting" with averted face, 

" We can see of God no trace ! " 

While the Simeons gladly cry, 

" Glory be to God come nigh ! " 



A QUESTION OF W^EATHER 

When the summer zephyrs blow 
Then my heart would wooing go 
With the muses in the dim 
Aisles of woodland dark and grim, 
When the wayside flowers bloom 
Then for man I find no room. 
When the blithe birds carol sweet 
Human tongue I find unmeet. 
I would wander all alone 
Where Dame Nature has her throne, 
And the wide world half so dear 
As her presence holds no peer. 
But when winter winds howl shrill 
Then the human heart grows chill. 
And I long for human tone 
By the fireside alone ! 



LITITZ 

A RETROSPECT AND A PROPHECY 

A full century has departed and a half has nearly flown 
Since the old Moravian fathers called this settlement their 
own. 
Well they builded (did they know it?) when they plan- 
ned the little town, 

[ 193 ] 



For their work was crowned with blessing and a well- 
deserved renown. 

Strong and massive were the dwellings which they raised 

— their monument — 
Still they're standing, time defying, show no blemish, 
break nor rent ; 
For they builded for their children, and the latest heir 

to-day 
Points with pride to work outlasting Time's worst en- 
gines of decay. 

Where those structures progress 1)anished from the pre- 
sence of their peers 
'Twas a costly undertaking and the passage of the years 
Yet shall prove if size and beauty plain old vigor can 

replace 
In the human habitation as the building of a race. 

In providing for the body they not only did their part 
But they builded for the spirit, for the intellect and heart. 
And the hand of Time still lingers with a gentle touch 

and kind 
Where the spruce and linden shelter what the fathers 
once designed. 

From this spot went forth by thousands north and south 

and east and west. 
Sons and daughters trained and fitted with the highest 
and the best. 
And ye younger generations, smile not if the place was 

small. 
For ye ken how little Nazareth once contained the Lord 
of all. 

From this spot went forth evangels to the islands of the 

sea. 
To the Indian in the forest, to the Negro, bond and free ; 
Far beyond the Arctic Circle, to Mosquito's fevered 

coast 
Did they take the faith they valued to earth's outcast, 
lone and lost. 

[ 194 ] 



We are growing big and bigger; let us cease ere we out- 
grow 
What of old the fathers cherished lest a fast age call us 
slow, 
For the simple life is better and the thought of higher 

things 
Than the scramble after dollars and the dearth of soul 
it brings. 

Yet they gave to contemplation but .a fraction of their 

days, 
While in all they wrought they freely gave their Maker 
proper praise. 
E'en in temporal things they prospered and the early 

annals tell 
How the fame of their inventions reached the greater 
world as well. 

Since the present time is ever quite the best that men have 

known, 
Each succeeding age can only laud achievements of its 
own. 
Simple though we count the fathers yet they were not 

all inclined 
To leave solely to their children all the fruits of hand 
and mind. 

We do well the paths to follow which they blazed. Their 

works we know. 
Our achievements are conjecture, if they make for weal 
or woe. 
Youth of counsel is impatient, yet 'tis well to pause 

and think ; 
At each new, untried endeavor we should tremble on 
the brink. 

Were they saints, the buried fathers? rVh, I doubt it! 

History's page 
Shows the weakness of the races, shows the faults of every 

age. 

[ 195 ] 



If we shunned their costly blunders, on their wisdom 

still improved 
Then our g'randsons must acknowdedge that we truly 

lived and moved. 

Ours an ag"e of ceaseless progress, knowiqg neither rest 

nor peace, 
And with each new undertaking problems grow and pains 
increase. 
As the stately piles rise upward and their chimneys 

cleave the sky 
Do our inner aspirations grow as well and climb as 
high ? 

Let us lay a strong foundation, nor be lightly satisfied 
To raise monuments of folly which the future shall deride. 
Let the coming generations, when a city we've become. 
Always hear the church bells ringing far above the 
factories' hum. 

Let the church and schoolhouse ever with the factory 

keep in line, 
Lest a social retrogression cause industrial decline. 
When the blood and sweat of childhood fatten money- 
king and drone 
It were well that misnamed Progress abdicated crown 
and throne. 

If we build on human justice, on the brotherhood of man. 
We will fit into the pattern of God's everlasting plan ; 
And our work shall be enduring as the fathers' was of 

old. 
And the fame of our achievements to posterity be told. 
— Historical and Pictorial Lititz, 19C5. Express Printing Co. 



LATE PURPLE ASTERS 

They grew along the woodland's edge 
Where Nature built a tangled hedge, 



[ 196 ] 



Blackberries, milkweed, tendrils fine 

Of many a creeping plant and vine, 

Then farther on I saw them grow 

Where chestnut trees stood in a row, 

At last a perfect bed I found 

Upon a piece of rising ground 

Where wandering sunbeams met no bar 

Of interlacing woodland trees. 

Nor did they fail to catch each breeze, 

Spice-laden wanderer from afar. 

From golden rod and tufts of fern. 
Snapdragons too aside I turn. 
The lovely asters' purple store 
Has caught my eye. I see no more. 
My eager haste is not controlled 
Until my hands no more can hold. 
And then they go to light the gloom 
And brighten up the darkened room, 
With welcome breath of wildwood sweet 
Of one whom illness keeps confined 
From all the haunts of Nature kind 
And footprints of her magic feet. 



A VISION 

There's an image haunts my fancy 
W^ith that mystic necromacy 

Bard nor prophet can explain. 
'Tis a little blue-eyed maiden 
Wreathed with smiles, with flowers laden, 

Flitting lightly through my brain. 

With the birds she hailed the morning, 
All the charms of Morpheus scorning. 

Chasing golden butterflies. 
With the birds she sang at even, 
Sending grateful prayers to hea\en 

In harmonious lullabies. 

\ >9- ] 



Mother thought her face more sunny 
And her lips more full of honey 

Than the butterflies' and bees', 
Mother thought her voice was sweeter 
Than the birds', her feet were fleeter 

Even than the dancing breeze. 

But the shadows long have darkened 
Blue eyes, for the ears have hearkened 

Harsher sounds than song of bird, 
And the dancing feet are weary 
Of the road so long and dreary 

Where they stumbled, slipped and erred. 

Would you ask me of the vision, 
Image of a land Elysian, 

Of the far-off childish days? 
'Tis myself I see before me. 
And a longing oft comes o'er me 

For the old familiar ways. 

Gone the glamor, gone the glory 
Of life's wondrous fairy story. 

Still its echo reappears. 
But alas for those who bear not 
With them childhood's scenes and hear not 

Childhood's voices in their ears ! 



THE BROOK 

The brook came down from the mountain side 
And sought the ocean so far and wide. 
All hindrances it cast aside 
As on its way it hastened. 

There were rocks and boulders in its path. 
But it tumbled o'er them in righteous wrath, 
And gave them all a thorough bath 
Before it was through with them. 

[198] 



There were flowers and grasses along the way, 
But neither for them would it stop or stay, 
It rested neither by night nor day. 
There was no time to be wasted. 

Children played in its waters cool, 
Fish disported in eddy and pool, 
As it frolicked on without chart or rule, 
And none asked where it was going. 

The trees contested every foot 
But it found a way around the root. 
No forest monarch so mighty but 
The brook could undermine it. 

Barns, houses and fences tried in vain 
To hem its course though they were fain. 
It was on its way to the distant main 
And trifles could not detain it. 

Once too it came to a city gate. 
Was ever an unkinder fate? 
Would it reach the ocean at this rate? 
It seemed a thing unlikely. 

At last it was lost in a sandy dune 
Its chatter drowned in a choking swoon. 
Sure it would die in the glare of noon. 
And that would be the end on 't. 

But out it crept and crawled once more, 
And its trials and troubles all were o'er, 
For the great calm ocean lay before 
And its journey now was ended. 

Strive on, oh Spirit, never fear ! 
Though far it seems, the goal is near. 
Each hindrance faced will disappear, 
And he who strives o'ercometh. 



199 



THE SAINTED DEAD 

In azure depths of yonder sky 
There dwell the blessed dead, 

In robes of white they walk for aye, 
The golden streets they tread. 

Ah, could we lift the sapphire vail 

That now and then divides 
Our fainting spirits would not quail 

To see them leave our sides. 

At set of sun the gates ajar 

One golden moment seem, 
We see them as we stand afar. 

Fair phantoms of a dream. 

And when the dawn with rosy glow 
O'erspreads the blushing East 

We somehow feel the zephyrs blow 
From regions of the blest. 

Again we stand when solemn Night 
Hangs out her pall of peace, 

The sombre depths with stars alight. 
And day's loud noises cease. 

While brilliant stars like windows shine, 
And seem to look right hrough 

Into those mansions all divine 
Barred to our human view. 

Then turn we to the common task. 

The work of yesterday. 
For visions only we may ask, 

For glimpses only pray. 

Like lost Perii we stand without 

The gates of Paradise 
Though spirit-worlds are all about 

Our blinded, earthly eyes. 

[ 200 ] 



Not only through the golden bars 

That sunsets fair unfold, 
Not only through the calm bright stars 

May we their forms behold, 

The comrades of our quiet hours 

The blessed dead we find, 
They keep at bay the evil powers 

That threaten heart and mind. 

The echo of their pleasant talk, 
The memory of their deeds. 

Still linger with us as we walk, 
A solace in our needs. 

Ah yes, they never cease to speak. 
Though scarcely understood. 

We need not climb the mountain peak 
To reach them, if we would. 

But should the hosts of sin o'ertake 

Our spirits — not till then — 
They sadly vanish and we wake 

To solitude and pain. 



THE CROWN OF THE YEAR 

Fair is Springtime's budding beauty 

Summer's brilliant reign is dear, 
But for Nature's crowning glory 

Seek the Autumn of the year. 
There's a glamor in the woodland, 

There's a halo on the hills, 
And a spell of sweet enchantment 

All the air Avith rapture fills. 

May can weave a mesh of emerald, 
June is lavish wtih her flowers, 

But October is a master 

That can mock at all their powers, 

[201 1 



And his colors float triumphant, 
Like the banners of a king, 

That from every wayside tree-top 
In the lambent air do swing:. 



^te- 



There is wealth of royal scarlet, 

There is little dearth of gold, 
And a glitter that no Solomon 

E'er conceived in days of old. 
Would you see the mighty pageant. 

Would you view the grand array 
You must hie you to the forest 

On a glorious Autumn day. 

Do you see the purple mountains 

How like sentinels they stand 
In their gold lace and their trappings 

Guarding all the pleasant land? 
Autumn too can boast her flowers 

Of the woodland, garden, field. 
And the corn-field and the orchard 

XAHiat a bounteous store they yield ! 

Not a month of all the dozen 

With October can compare, 
He must bear the crown of beauty. 

He's the fairest of the fair. 
If inclined to doubt my story 

Go and hie you to the hills 
Till the witchery of his presence 

All your inmost being thrills. 

Would you see the splendid picture, 

Go to-day. It will not last. 
Even now the show is passing. 

Let your memory hold it fast. 
And when Winter's snow-white mantel 

Hides the wreck decay hath wrought 
Let the spell of gay October 

Brighten e'en your saddest thought. 

[ 202 ] 



REGRET 

There is never a sound of laughter, nor ever a sound of 

tears 
Throudiout the awful silence of the so itary years. 
I could bear passion or anger, the words that cut and try. 
But not the awful stillness from which I cannot fiy. 

I had spoken oh, so gently had I known that we must part 
And I must bear in my bosom forever this aching 

heart. . , 

I'd bear the worst injustice nor murmur nor rebel 
To o-et rid of a guilty conscience that suffers the pangs ot 

hell. 

Ah no she was not faultless, but I can now forget 
The faults of the beloved while my own are with me yet. 
The errors of a lifetime before grim Death will pale. 
And 'tis only the living sinners that tremble and shrink 
and quail. 

Couldst thou return, beloved, I would blot out all the past 
And we would love each other with a love that aye would 

last 
But for me ihere is no answer through all the silent years 
S^ve an echo of reproaches and a burden of unshed tears. 

THE LAND OF ROMANCE 

Once there gleamed a land enchanted 

Tore my fancy. I was haunted 

By a vision bright and golden. 

Yet my eyes were strangely holden. 

Never could I see it clearly, 

Never could I grasp it nearly. 

As I grew the dream receded, 

All my inmost being needed 

Was contained within that vision, 

Walls of pearl and fields Elysian. 

Then there came an end to dreaming, 

[ 203 1 



And my life had all the seeming 

Of a well deprived of water, 

Of a beast prepared for slaughter. 

But I still lived on and living 

Soon I found life not all grieving. 

Then the Lord gave back my vision, 

But, as if in mild derision, 

It had changed its place. Behind me 

Now it stood. It did not blind me 

As of yore. I see it clearly, 

And I love it yet more dearly. 



A JUNE SONG 

Under the trees with birds and flowers 
Passing away the gladsome hours. 
Away with study and work and care ! 
They are the food that feeds despair. 

Under the trees where shadows play 
Bopeep with sunbeams all the day. 
Never a thought of hateful things. 
Only the whirr of gauzy wings. 

Under the trees where songs are heard. 
Chirp and twitter and trill of bird, 
Never a sound of trade's annoy. 
Only the myriad sounds of joy. 

Under the trees I lie and sleep 
Out in the world the toilers weep. 
In dust and grime, in pain and woe 
Children of Nature do not know. 

Under the trees I sit and dream. 
The forms of men but phantoms seem. 
A truce with love, ambition, gain ; 
They only fetter, heart and brain. 



204 



Under the trees ah, what care I 

For the things for which men strive and die. 

Under the trees no blood is spilt 

To win brief fame or cover guilt. 

Under the trees I have no lack. 

Ye woo in vain. I come not back, 

For life hath charms I may not tell 

Where sap flows deep and sweet buds swell. 

Under the trees full deep I drink 
From Nature's spring; upon the brink 
Of men-hewn cisterns I have known 
A quenchless thirst. Let me alone! 



AFTER CHRISTMAS 

The Christmas bells have ceased to ring, 

The Yule-tide fires are out, 
No more the children laugh and sing, 

And silence reigns about. 
On the last guest we close the door. 

The gifts are laid aside. 
The feasting and the games are o'er. 

Farewell, sweet Christmas-tide ! 

Now comes the sober second thought, 

And conscience-struck we ask, 
Were all the gifts we should have bought 

Bestowed? Was it a task. 
Or was there love behind the deed? 

And of the gifts we got 
How many fill a real need 

Or find a vacant spot? 

Why wait until the Christmas chimes 

Remind us we should give? 
There are no seasons and no times 

\Mien friends have ceased to live. 

[ 205 ] 



Why should the Christmas spirit dwell 

In closets all the year 
Until the annual carols tell 

That Christmas time is here? 

What does it mean, our joyous feast, 

But that a Child was born. 
His bed a manger by a beast 

Forsaken and forlorn? 
And what the lesson this should teach ? 

Sure every child can guess. 
He came the humble poor to reach, 

And we dare do no less. 

Not when the yearly bells are rung, 

The yearly songs resound, 
But we should go His poor among 

Through the whole year around. 
He went not on a single day 

To heal the sick and take 
The Word of Life but on the way 

He died for their dear sake. 

Day in day out the Savior went, 

The toilsome path He trod, 
And in His foot-steps we are sent 

To smooth the road to God. 
Let hearts and purses feel the touch 

Of need at every turn. 
Nor stint our offerings overmuch 

When Christmas tapers burn. 



ELAINE, THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER 

The round red moon rose over the hill. 
The eve was calm and cool and still 
When soft she stepped across the sill, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

She dared not go abroad by day, 
The dogs barked at her by the way, 

r 206 1 



The boys threw stones and all would say, 
" Oh fie, the witch's daughter! " 

Since that dark day, she scarce knew when, 
Her mother came from prison pen 
To die she shunned the haunts of men, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

Yet she was fair and shy and sweet, 
Her form was slender, supple, neat, 
Nor was the hunted hare more fleet 
Than w^as the witch's daug^hter. 

She glided by the woodland dark. 
She shivered at the distant bark 
Of watch dogs or the shadows stark, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

When out upon the road she came 
Fresh terror shook her slender frame 
At sound of her own hated name, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

Beside her stood the farmer's son 
At whose behest the deed was done 
That made her orphaned, sad and lone, 
Elaine, the Avitch's daughter. 

H^ad her time too noAv come to die? 
She turned with hasty step to fly. 
" Elaine, you shall not pass me by. 
You are no witch's daughter! " 

He laid his hand upon her arm. 
*' Elaine, I'd give my father's farm 
To show you that I mean no harm 
Unto your mother's daughter." 

She raised her shy glance to his face 
And read there not a single trace 
Of aught but honor and manly grace, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

[ 207 ] 



The blue eyes looked into the brown 
Till the long lashes swept adown 
The cheeks from which the blood had flown. 
Beware, oh witch's daughter! 

''And will you be my wife?" he said. 
She sadly shook her little head. 
"Ah no," she said. " How dare you wed 
Elaine, the witch's daughter?" 

" Elaine," said he. He said, " Elaine, 
O, let me wipe that awful stain 
From our name, nor plead in vain. 
You are no witch's daughter ! " 

" Your father, how can he endure 
His son should wed a maiden poor? 
He drove my mother from his door. 
And I'm Elaine, her daughter!" 

" My father till the day he dies 
Will rue the deed, and oft he cries 
To God for pardon, groans and sighs 
In pity for that daughter. 

" If you in mercy will forgive 
He'll make amends the while you live. 
And to his heart and home receive 
Elaine, the witch's daughter." 

The long lash swept the rose-leaf cheek. 
Her tears fell fast, she could not speak, 
She staggered, suddenly grown weak, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

The young man caught her to his breast. 
Like hunted deer she lay at rest. 
Or like a bird within its nest, 
Elaine, the witch's daughter. 

[208 1 



And as she walked a happy bride, 
Her stalwart husband by her side, 
No more the village curs decried 
Elaine, the farmer's daughter. 



THE HAUNTS OF THE MUSE 

THE BARD 

I sought her in my quiet moods 

When no one else was nigh, 
Deep in the woodland solitudes, 

And 'neath the midnight sky. 

I sought her in the twilight dim, 

I sought her face at dawn. 
And where the feathered songsters hymn 

Their praises on the lawn. 

I sought her 'mid the breakers' roar 
And 'mid the lightning's glare. 

I found no footprints on the shore 
In spite of all my care. 

But in the busy haunts of men 

I thought, she cannot be. 
In battle-field and prison pen 

No man her form may see. 

But lo ! upon the crowded street 

I marked her garments' trail. 
Where human hearts the loudest beat 

I bade the goddess hail. 

The slave who saw that presence pass 

Of liberty would dream, 
And prisoners smelled the meadow grass 

And heard the forest stream. 



209 



The burdened saw a sure release, 

The sorrowing- took cheer, 
The guilty dreamed of heavenly peace. 

And pardon now and here. 

And so no more the Muse I seek 

In solitary glade, 
In Nature's haunts remote and bleak 

No more I seek the Maid. 

I find her where the battle's hot 

And wild the conflict's din. 
But where the human foot treads not 

She nevermore has been. 



THE MUSE 

'Twas the tragic muse, my friend, 
That was found on crowded mart. 

Thither ne'er my steps I bend. 
In such scenes I have no part. 

If my presence thou wouldst seek 
Close thy mind to all beside. 

Thy devotion was but weak, 

From thy prayers I turned aside. 

I'm enthroned in solitude 

And my atmosphere is peace. 

Thou must come in tranquil mood. 
From the world must seek release. 

Thy experience is disproved 

By the poets of all time, 
Poets who have lived and loved 

In my solitude sublime. 

Thou art but a callow youth, 

Frightened by the cataract's roar 



2IO ] 



Or thou wouldst have seen, forsooth, 
Where my footsteps fled before ! 

Flee the lif^ht of garish day, 

Leave the v^^ell-tried haunts of men, 
And I will not say thee nay 

Shouldst thou seek my face again. 



TOO LOW 

We swarm about this great round earth like bees around 

a hive, 
We only differ from the clods in that we are alive. 
The petty things of every day fill all our thought and time. 
We have no time to think of God, no wish to be sublime. 

Like beasts we only live to eat, to sleep and to destroy. 
Like children we embrace or spurn this or the other toy, 
Like butterflies within the sun we sport our little day, 
Like thistle-down upon the wind our lives are blown 
away. 

Aleanwhile the everlasting hills encompass. us around, 
And blessings countless as the sands on every hand are 

found, 
The heavens of the glory tell of God who reigns above, 
And every blade of grass proclaims the truth that He is 

love. 

Our lives He would expand and fill as rains the rivulet, 
For only fragile human hands bars to His power can set. 
He'd give us wings to fly as doves, to creep we are con- 
tent. 
We shut the door when angels bright as visitants are sent. 

Some day our little lives will shrink before the great 

white throne 
And then o'er all our pettiness we'll make a useless moan. 

[211] 



Some day the scales will leave our eyes and then, alas! 

and then 
We'll wish instead of beasts or fools we'd lived our lives 

like men. 



TO C. K. B. 

ON READING HIS POEMS 

Echoing- from the Golden Gate 
Came a voice that sang of fate, 
And all themes that soon or late 
Flit through poet's brain. 

Sweet as voice of woodland bird 
E'er at dawn or twilight heard, 
Sweeter far since it was stirred 
By man's joy and pain. 

There's a fragrance in thy song 
Such as south winds bring along 
From where spicy islands throng 
Far in sunlit seas. 

There's a color in thy verse, 
Like that artists might rehearse, 
Taught by Nature, the fond nurse, 
Once on bended knees. 

There's a meaning in thy speech 
Many strive in vain to reach. 
And but fullest life can teach 
Open eyes and ears. 

Hast thou caught that glow intense 
From those skies kind Providence 
Fashioned for a poet's lense? 
Sure, it so appears. 

Hath the ocean lent thee tone 

Where her white-capped billows moan 



[212] 



On the golden sands upon 
California's strand? 

Yea, the purple peaks have lent 
Thee their force. The vigor pent 
In primeval forests went 
Forth into thy hand. 

And there lacketh not the light 
Of the hearth-fire burning bright, 
Banishing the gloom that might 
Shroud the poet's rhyme, 

Nor the buoyant faith that bears 
Winged souls all unawares 
Through life's labyrinth of snares 
To the bounds of time. 

Thanks, oh poet of the West, 
Thou hast given of thy best. 
May thy future tasks be blest 
In that sunny clime. 



SOUL, WHY MOURNEST THOU THY YOUTH? 

Soul, why mournest thou thy youth 
As it held all good in truth? 
Sure no sweeter joys can be 
Than the future holds for thee. 
Forward is the march of Time, 
Tarrying by the way is crime. 
Looking back means standing still, 
Nerveless hand and feeble will. 
Folded wings and slumbering brain 
That to nothing can attain. 
What is past has served its day, 
Corpses litter up the way, 
Memories are but meagre fare 
For the souls that do and dare. 

[ 213 ] 



He who lingers with the Past 
Will but find himself at last 
Left behind by those that rise 
To a beckoning Paradise. 



REJOICE 

The meadows are gemmed with blue and gold 
Where knee-deep stand the cows. 

They know no care, they ne'er grow old, 
They make and break no vows. 

The birds are swinging on the trees 
With hearts as light as a feather; 

They fear no tempest in the breeze, 
They mind not wind and weather. 

The bees are of the toiling kind 

And yet they are content. 
Their toiling millions love to grind, 

Nor are by factions rent. 

The butterfly flits gaily dight 

Through pastures bright and sunny; 

He marketh not Time's rapid flight, 
Nor lays up stores of honey. 

'Tis only man, the foolish elf, 

That will not cease to grieve ; 
He stores up sorrows on his shelf 

Which he is loth to leave. 

Full many a lesson he could learn 
From creatures 'neath his scorning. 

Who scarce would envy in their turn 
A soul that walks in mourning. 

Look up, my soul, and fear not joy. 

Sweet messenger divine! 
Fly all the ills which thee annoy, ^ 

Since earth and heaven are thine. 

[214] 



SUSPICION 

Once my lord I loved him well, 

Years and years we loved each other, 

But a shadow came between. 
And a voice I could not smother. 

And that shadow never left, 
Left the side of my beloved, 

Walked and eat and slept with him, 
For without it he ne'er moved. 

When he spoke his voice was kind 
As of old and quite as tender, 

But I could not answer him 

With love's ancient self-surrender. 

When a kiss upon my lip 
As of old he fondly planted 

I could feel the icy breath 

Of the shadow that him haunted. 

So that shadow haunted me, 

Even when at night I slumbered ; 

I could feel its ghostly eyes 

W^hen I wakened times unnumbered. 

Yea, it filled the whole wide house 
With the terror of its presence, 

All things yielded to the thing 
^^^ith a tacit acquiescence. 

Then I broke the spell and fled 
From the baleful thing forever, 

But my husband is there yet, 

And the shadow leaves him never. 

A\^ould you know the hated name 
Of that shadow? 'Tis Suspicion! 

And the wreckage of a home 
Was the phantom's deadly mission. 

[2151 



NATURE'S CALL 

There are voices that call me from afar, 
There are shadowy hands that beckon me, 

But I am bound by the things that are. 

And the things that I yearn for may not be. 

I am called by the voice of field and wood, 

Of flower and bird and stream and sky. 
By others they are but half understood. 
But I know their inarticulate cry. 

The dews of the woodland are on my brow. 
The breath of the woodland is in the breeze, 

And a hundred voices are calling now 

From the buzzing bees to the waving trees. 

There is freedom and joy and great content 
Somewhere, I know, if I could but find. 

I am kept in chains and in banishment, 
I am old and sick, I am lame and blind. 

The noise of the world hath dulled mine ear, 
The glare of the world hath dimmed my sight, 

I am ruled by the things I hate and fear, 
I am haunted by visions of the night. 

Ah, spirits bright of the wood and the stream, 
Ye haunt my spirit by night and by day, 

Ye are but the phantoms of a dream. 

Though it break my heart 1 must say you nay. 

Ah, crested waves, ye must break in vain 
Upon the long, low line of the shore. 

For I may not look on your forms again 
Nor listen to you as in days of yore. 

Ye mountains uplift your snow crowned heads 
All vainly to kiss the stars and the sun. 

I know not what yonder sweet heaven sheds 
Of its rainbow light your peaks upon. 

[216] 



And footprints of her magic feet. 
All the day do I hear low voices call, 

And beckoning hands all the night I see, 
But I may not go till the dead leaves fall 

And my body and spirit parted be. 



OLD LETTERS 

It was only a box of letters 

But it carried me back through the years 
To the dreamy days of girlhood 

Seen through a mist of tears. 

I found old dreams that were shattered, 
Old hopes that were captive led. 

And I listened to the laughter 
Of comrades long since dead. 



I dug up lost ambitions 

And plans that had stood no test, 
Old tasks once more went over 

With the oldtime youthful zest. 

There were kindly words of counsel 
From wiser heads than mine, 

There were foolish tales and sallies, 
Of unripe years the sign, 

A wedding invitation, 

A picture, a lock of hair, 
A bit of silk or a draAving 

Preserved with tenderest care. 

Why waste time with old letters? 

Life is too short you say, 
To linger along the wayside 

With the things of yesterday. 

Too short for fond remembrance? 

Too short for the dreams of the past? 
Alas for the barren existence 

That hurries on so fast ! 

[217] 



For the heart grows hard and bitter 

That finds no time for tears, 
And the sweetest things are often 

Found buried within past years. 

So I fingered the letters fondly 

And put them back once more. 
For I felt refreshed in spirit, 

As a plant when the rain is o'er. 

Linden Hall Echo, November, 1907 
THE ANSWER 

(from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 

The little rose which thou hadst sent 
Plucked by thy hand its life has spent. 
It scarce survived the sunset's breath. 
Homesickness gave it early death. 
And now its soul goes out from me 
And as a song returns to thee. 



EVENING CLOUDS 

(from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 

Clouds I see at eventide 

In the purest lustre glow; 

Clouds that erst so dark did grow 

Are consumed in floods of light. 

My prophetic heart doth say: 

"When the sun sinks at the close 

Of your life in late repose 

Your soul's shadows will be bright. 



218] 



DESTINY 

(from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 

Yea, Destiny, I comprehend. 
My happiness is not of earth, 
It blooms but in the poet's dream, 
Thou sendest sorrows manifold 
And givest for each woe a song. 



I WANT MY MOTHER 

]My mother was so cold last night ! 

(I'm looking for my mother!) 
You see they dressed her all in white. 

I'm looking for my mother!) 
They put her in a narrow bed 
With flowers at the feet and head 
Because, they told me, she was dead. 

(O, say, that's not. my mother!) 

They'll put her in the ground some day, 

(I'm looking for my mother!) 
And lay her in the dark away, 

(I'm looking for my mother!) 
And on the top they'll put a stone 
To tell the people where she's gone, 
And I am left here all alone! 
(O say, I want my mother!) 

My papa says that is not so, 

(I'm looking for my mother!) 
I guess my papa ought to know! 

(I'm looking for my mother!) 
He says she went beyond the skies 
To live with God in Paradise, 
And through the stars her angel eyes 
Can see me, sweet my mother. 

O, mother dear, why can't I come 
(O dear, I want my mother!) 

And live with you in Jesus' home? 
(O dear, I want my mother!) 

[219] 



Some night we'll climb a moonbeam stair 
And go to met you over there, 
Papa and I. No one will care ! 
We'll go and find my mother! 



A PARABLE 

I promised fair when I was young, 
I might have been a stately tree. 

The life-sap from my heart was wrung 
To cramp my limbs so lithe and free. 



One said that I would grow too tall 

And pierce the clouds, — a foolish thing !- 

Against my nature, therefore all 

Care must be spent my height to bring 

Within the bounds prescribed by law 
And custom lest the other trees 

Should envious be or stand in awe 
Of one whom higher than they please 

Need never rise, and so they said 

The higher limbs should all be pruned. 

One said I should no wider spread 

Lest nearer trees my limbs might wound. 

They trimmed and pruned me all around. 
According to their varied taste. 

Until I took so little ground 

A flower pot I might have graced. 

And then they scorned the puny growth 
And wondered why I bore no fruit. 

But if I had all men were loath 

To see me bear what none would suit. 

I am a dwarfed and crippled thing 
With little life and little strength. 

'Tis only fit that men should fling 
My body in the fire at length. 

[ 220 1 



I promised well when I was young, 
I might have grown a stately tree 

If meddling hands aside I'd flung 

And spread my branches fair and free. 

I might have pierced the opal cloud 

And risen to the heavens blue, 
Beneath me left the mists that shroud 

The trees that in the lowlands grew, 

I might have floated in the sun 

And held communion with the stars, 

While centuries' march unheeded spun 
And left upon my trunk its scars, 

I might have stood a monument 

Of majesty and power divine 
Until the lightning's dart had rent 

My heart and bid my life decline. 

O, foolish tree! why did I bend 

To every knife that pruned and trimmed? 

O, foolish trees, I warn you, lend 
No ear to those who never climbed. 

But grow to heaven as God wills. 
For each must live his separate life, 

He only stunts the soul and kills 

Who wields too much the pruning knife ! 

— February, 190 a 



THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS 

(from the GERMAN OF SCHILLER) 

A youth in whom the love of wisdom burned 
And to Egyptian Sais brought the priestly 
And mystic learning to acquire, having 
Passed many a degree with ready wit. 
Felt himself no less driven by the passion 
Of investigation. The hierophant 
Could scarce appease the impatient aspirer. 

f 221 1 



"What have I if I have not all?" the stripling 
Questioned. " Do you reckon by more and less? 
Is your truth, like the joy the sense affords, 
But a sum which one can possess in larger, 
Smaller portions and yet always possess? 
Is it not one undivided unity? 
Take but one tone out of a melody, 
Take a single color out of the rainbow 
And all that may remain is naught to you 
As long as the beautiful whole is wanting. 

The while they thus conversed they stood within 

The bounds of a rotunda's solitude 

Where a veiled figure of colossal stature 

The youth's attention drew. Filled with amazement 

He looked upon his guide and said : " What is't 

That seeks to hide itself behind this vail?" 

"The Truth," the answer came. — "What?" cried the for 

mer, 
'Tis Truth alone I seek and yet this very 
Thing it is that you strive to hide from me?" 

" That you may with the Deity decide," 

Returned the hierophant. " No mortal man. 

Says she, shall lift this vail until I raise it. 

And who with guilty hand unconsecrate 

The sacred vail shall raise before that time, 

He, s2Lys the Deity"— "Well?"— "He shall see truth." 

"A curious oracle ! So you yourself 

H^ave never yet made the attempt to raise it?" 

" I ? No, indeed ! And never yet thereto 

Was tempted." — " That I cannot grasp. If only 

" This thin partition me from truth divided " — 

"And a commandment," interposed his guide, 

" More weighty than you comprehend, my son. 

Is this thin gauze — light in your hand indeed 

But heavy as a millstone on your conscience." 

Deep buried in his thoughts the youth went homeward. 
Wisdom's burning passion robbed him of sleep. 
Upon his couch he tossed about with fever 
W^ell nigh consumed. He rose in haste at midnight, 

[ 222 ] 



To the temple led his unwilling step. 
The wall to scale he found a task most easy, 
And a spirited leap the rash youth landed 
W^ithin the centre of the rotunda. 

So there he stood and awfully the dead 

Stillness the solitary one surrounded, 

Broken only by the hollow echo 

His footsteps in the secret chambers made. 

The moon sent his pallid silver blue beam 

Through the cupola's opening from above 

And dreadful, like a very present God, 

There gleamed from out the gloomy vaults' thick darkness 

The statue through the folds of its long vail. 

He went toward it wnth uncertain step. 

Already his bold hand is raised the holiest 

To touch when he grows hot and cold through all 

His limbs, an arm unseen hath thrust him backward. 

Unhappy man, wdiat wouldst thou do? so speaks 

A faithful voice to him within his spirit. 

The All Holy Avouldst thou presume to tempt? 

No mortal man, the oracle hath said, 

Shall lift this vail until myself shall raise it. 

But did not the self-same voice add thereto: 

Whoe'er this vail of truth shall raise shall see it? 

*' Behind it be what may raise it I Avill." 

He cries in a loud voice : *' I want to see it ! 

See it! 
Repeats an echo mockingly and shrill. 

He spoke and, as he did so, raised the vail. 

Well, do you ask, and what did the man see? 

I do not know. Unconscious he was found 

And pale lying out-stretched in front of Isis' 

Pedestal by the priests upon the morn. 

Wliat he there might have seen and what exj^ericnce 

There made his tongue not once confessed. Life never 

Could be a source of joy to him again. 

He was brought to an early grave by sorrow. 

[ 223 1 



" Woe unto him," these were his warning words, 
When eager questioners pressed him too closely, 
" Woe unto him who reaches truth through guilt ! 
It nevermore can be a joy to him." 

—Linden Hall Echo, April, 1903 



CHANGED 

Yes, it is he, the man I loved 

A score of years ago, and yet 
I see the real man has proved 

So different from the image set 
Within my inmost heart that I 
Will fling it out and let it lie. 

That stalwart form is bowed with care, 

Those locks are blanched with age's frost. 

Yet I might still have found him fair 
Were only youth and beauty lost. 

Rut something from that face is gone 

That once I loved to gaze upon. 

The world accounts him rich and great, 
A generous man — he bears that name ! — 

A frugal too, who sits up late 

To win his millions like a game 

Then scatter with a lordly hand 

'Mong those erst robbed at his command. 

Though shrunk the form, the soul within 
A smaller compass e'en might hold. 

Lean victim of the monster sin 
Men call the sordid love of gold. 

The curse of Midas blasts his brain, 

The curse of Judas and of Cain. 

Men honor him when they should spurn 
The wretch who sold for gold his all, 

Youth, manhood, health, bright hopes that burn 
In every soul before its fall. 

Once I adored that lofty brow. 

The curse of Esau brands it now. 

[224] 



I loved him once, or loved a man 
That I had fondly hoped he'd be. 

My dream is gone, yet it began 
So long ago it seemed to me 

A part of life. 'Tis better so. 

One last long look and let it go. 

It had been harder vv^ere I tied 

To yonder sordid thing as wife, 
Had seen his slow decay and tried 

In vain to win him from the strife 
That sapped his heart's blood day by day 
^And quenched his soul's bright light for aye, 

The dream is gone and I awake. 

It was a pleasant dream, I own. 
He never missed me; with his rake 

Stooped to the earth he saw no crown 
Of love above his temples held. 
For him there is no dream dispelled. 



NOT IN VAIN 

O human frame, all racked with pain, 
O human heart all scarred with sin, 
Your sufferings cannot be in vain ^ 
Since One there died a path to win 
To yonder mansions bright and high _ 
Where sin and suffering come not nigh. 

O great round earth so beautiful, 

So blotted and obscured by wrong, 

We must be very blind and dull 

Unless we see 'tis not for long 

A serpent crowned shall hold the throne 

Where One is potentate alone. 

O ages dim and ages dark. 
In all the history of the race, 

[225] 



It takes no sage's eye to mark 
And throug-h them all the hand to trace 
That shapes them to a perfect end, 
That light and form complete shall lend. 

O coming- days, or dark or bright, 
No prophet's power need lift the vail 
To show the growing of the Might 
That shall make evil shrink and quail. 
Or tell with dauntless hardihood 
The triumph of Eternal Good. 



THE LONG ROAD 

The long road, the lone road, 

It leads a-past my door.; - 
But where it leads I cannot tell. 

It tempts me evermore. 

It leads between the wide, green fields 
And seems to meet the sky, ,; 

Sometime I'll follow where it leads, 
And be it far or nigh. ' , 

And then I'll wander back again 
And ask, why did I roam? i 

But if I come or if I go 
I never feel at home. 

The long road, the lone road. 
That leads a-past my door. 

The lone road, the long road; 
It tempts me evermore. ' 

But if I wander back again 

I may not care to stay. 
And if I follow where it leads 

I'll sorrow all the way. 

[ 226 ] 



MATTHEW STEIN 

(a true story) 

Like all the old my mother loved to dwell 

Upon past times and friends she knew in youth. 

The records of full many a house she knew 

To trace through generations three at least. 

A moral oft her tales contained, showing 

How virtue is its own reward and sin its punishment. 

The tale of Matthew Stein 
A strong impression made upon my mind 
Which time cannot efiface. When Matthew came 
Across the ocean from the Fatherland 
With his young wife they both were poor but strong 
And brave to face the poor man's lot. Their sole 
Ambition was to have a little house 
And acres few that they might call their own 
When they were old and could no longer toil. 
So late and early toiled the honest pair. 
The husband was a mason famed for skill, 
The wife no labor scorned in house or field. 
And e'en her resting rnoments found her well 
Employed with socks for all the country round, 
The product of her nimble, tireless hands. 
One grief they had, no children came to bless 
Their humble lot. But ere they had attained 
Their heart's desire a little son was born. 
The darling of their age and ere he was 
'To manhood grown the cot was theirs, the land 
Their own. Now all was happiness and sweet 
Content. 

Time passed. At length young Matthew chose 
A wife. His parents were well pleased; she was 
A likely maid, hard-working too and kind. 
Young Matthew learned his father's trade and still 
The old folks helped along as much as age 
Allowed. 

But now there came a change as sad 
x\s unforseen. As one by one the boys, 
Six boys there were, came trooping in the house 

[227I 



Soon grew too small. Cumbered with numerous cares 

Young- IMatthew's wife no time had left to wait 

Upon the aged pair. Sour looks gave way 

To muttered discontent, until at length 

The son in shameless wise suggested "that 

The county almshouse was the place for such 

As could no longer work nor help themselves. 

And so it came that in his crippled age 

Old Matthew Stein came to the very place 

He toiled a lifetime to avoid. 

The last 
Time that my mother saw him was when she 
Was driving with her father and they met 
The worn, decrepit man with aid of two 
Stout canes wending his toilsome way once more 
Toward the cot he once called his to see 
The well beloved spot before he died. 
Full thirteen miles the distance. How he fared 
My mother never heard. Grandfather pressed 
Some money in his hand and touching was 
The old man's gratitude. No doubt he found 
More help among the farmers by the Avay. 
His wife was dead and little time elapsed 
Between that journey and his journey home 
To yonder land where sorrow is no more. 

Now comes the sequel to the tale. The boys 

Grew up and girls came too, and once again 

The house was grown too small. When Matthew's wife 

Was dead and he was old he wandered 'round 

Among the children, never staying long ^ 

With any lest they tire of him too 

And send him to that almshouse where he sent 

His father long ago. Haunted by that 

Dim fear he had no peace until he died. 

The curse is on them to this day, for not 

A man or woman by the name of Stein 

Is noted for that thrift and industry, 

That honest virtue, simple piety 

That came with Matthew from the Fatherland. 



228 



IN THE CONFLICT 

Not to the drowsy sentry asleep upon his post, 
Not to the idle dreamer to life aloof and lost, 
But to the fighting warrior, where bullets thickest fly, 
Comes the muse's inspiration, the thought sublime and 
high. 

From Israel's soldier-poet, not from his wiser son. 
Come the melodious measures that through the ages run, 
And England's master singer 'mid war of tongue and pen 
Sent forth the sweetest music heard by the sons of men. 

The words that help the weary, the words that spur or 

please 
Are forged in blood and fire, not born in slothful ease. 
For life is endl'ess conflict and they who rest are dead. 
What we want are songs of battle by the warrior born and 

bred. 

We may wish for pleasant leisure, of peaceful moments 

dream. 
Yet the current bears us onward, like fagots on a stream. 
The voice that charms our spirit and makes us long for 

rest 
Is born amidst the conflict, and we love that singer best. 



TO A DOG 

WAITING FOR HIS MASTER OUTSIDE OF A SALOON 

Poor dog! thine is a sorry fate 

That thou hast found so poor a mate, 

Or, master must I say? 
Ah, sure, he is a woeful wight 
Who cannot master appetite 

AMien tempted by the way. 

The street is cold, the rain is w^et. 
Thou likst it ill, poor beast, and yet 
Thou will not leave him there. 

[ 229 1 



Mayhap he'll pay thee with a curse, 
A blow, or even something worse, 
• For all thy loving care.-., 

I see tholi hast a gentle face, 
A noble air, a nameless grace 

That show a lineage high. 
Perhaps thou art of better blood 
Than he who gives thee daily food 

And bed wherein to lie. 

Thine eye is large and bright and clear, 
Undimmed by passion, lust or fear, 

'Tis not the case with him. 
His eyes before thine own must shrink 
When reason is dethroned by drink 

And brain begins to swim. 

Still waiting, friend? Thy patience sure 
Outweighs his own, thy love so pure 

Deserves a better cause. ^' 

Thy shivering limbs, thy wistful glance 
Make me desire I had the chance 

To change old Nature's laws. . 

I'd m^ke thee master, him thb~ beast, 
For he'd not suffer in the least. 

But find his level true. 
While thou wouldst honor thy degree 
And get naught from humanity 

But what was long thy due. 



■ ,^ . MARY DYER , - 

have you read the cruel s'tory in the annals of bur land 
How Mary Dyer, the Quaker, was called for her faith to 

stand, 
And how she sealed on the scaffold her witness unto the 

same. 
To the honor of her country and its lasting scorn and 

shame? 

[230] 



It was when the jails of Boston with her Quaker friends 
were filled, 

Like a sweet angel of mercy, she came, as the good Lord 
willed. 

From her home in fair Rhode Island, wdiere she lived in 
blessed peace. 

To comfort the prisoned sufferers and to pray for their re- 
lease. 

They drove her twice from the city, but again she entered 

in. 
And they bound her and condemned her to the scafifold 

for her sin. 
Tw^o others there w^alked beside her in the pride and bloom 

of youth, 
^^^^o were, like the gentle Mary, to die for love of the 

truth. : , ' 

They mounted the fatal ladder and swung dead before her 
eyes,,; ':'-:_ ■ ■ ■ ' : : ^ <. ',,;'• 

And the hounding crowd watched breathless when the 
shock of glad surprise ■ ■ 

Sent the red blood leaping backward to her pallid cheek 
once more. : " - ' • 

There came reprieve from the Governor and the fierce or- 
deal w^as o'er. " . 

Her son had won pardon for her and bore her back to her 

home. 
Like one returned from the portals of the dark mysterious 

tomb. 
But Mary could not be happy while she knew that others 

lay 
And suffered in distant Boston. So thither she found her 

w^ay. 

Again she received her sentence and now it was all in vain 
That her husband w^ept and pleaded. The judge was deaf 

to his, pain. 
And there upon Boston common under God's free blue 

sky 
\\^as Mary Dyer, the Quaker, led forth once more to die. 

[ 231 1 



Two centuries have been numbered and the land where 

Quakers bled 
Is now the wide world's asylum, to which the oppressed 

have fled 
From every land and nation and have found a welcome 

e'er. 
There is room for all but bigots, yea, room for all and to 

spare ! 



MY ROSES 



The last rose of summer ! 

Ah, tell me not so, 
Though late be the comer. 

My roses still blow. 
My roses bloom even 

'Neath frost and snow. 
They're blooming in heaven, 

No blight shall they know. 
No spendthrift shall gather 

Then throw them aside. 
Ah, no, I would rather 

Their sweetness should bide 
Forever and ever 

Past time and tide. 



TONES OF THE SOUL 

Have you heard the ancient legend 

About a buried town? 
It stood on the old French border 

Where once the shore sank doAvn. 

Where rang the laughter of childhood. 
Of toil-worn men the tread. 

Are now the roar of the ocean, 
And white-capped waves instead. 



[232] 



Though tower and high church steeple 
Have long found watery graves 

The sailors hear the distant 
Bells ring beneath the waves. 

Above the roar of the tempest, 

Above the breaker's roll 
We may hear the bells of conscience 

Within the human soul. 

Though the currents of life's ocean 

Engulf the human heart 
Yet the muffled voice of conscience 

Fulfills its destined part. 

Give ear to that inner music 
No storms of earth can drown. 

Ah, list to the bells of warning 

Where the ships of the lost go down. 



WAITING 

He stood at the door last night, 
And he said, "Where do you stay? 

'T've been waiting for you these twenty years. 
Why do you linger, pray?" 

And I said, " I may not come." 

I said it with tears and pain. 
" I've been longing to come these twenty years, 

But my longing has been in vain. 

" There is work for me to do. 

And I may not lay it down, 
Though my hands and heart are w^eary enough 

To change the cross for the crown. 

So sadly he turned away. 

And it almost broke my heart. 
He has come for me full many a time 

To be bidden again depart. 

[ ^^?> ] 



If the time seems long to him 
Small wonder indeed that I 

Grow weary upon this changing earth 
Where all things good must die. 



WOULD YOU? 

They that slay the body are slain again, 

They that slay the soul are guarded with might. 

O, hearts of women, and minds of men, 
Say, speak on your oath, is it right? 

There are wrongs that are punished blood for blood, 
There are wrongs for which there is no redress. 

Ye men so upright, and women so good, 
Who is to blame? Can you guess? 

This world is so full of food and of drink, 
This world is rich, with plenty to spare, 

And yet there are those (what do you think?) 
Who have nothing to eat nor to wear. 

There's a God above whose kindness and love 
Sends his rain to shine on the good and the bad, 

And yet there is scarcely a child but can prove 
That the few would take all that he had. 

There is work in this world for every one. 
But alas, there are those, it is sad to say, 

^^'ho would have all the work of the world be done 
By a fraction in a day. 

There are those who eat from plates of gold, 
There are those indeed who are glad for a crust. 

There are those whom early toil makes old, 
There are those who in idleness rust. 

O, hearts of women, and minds of men. 
In justice tell me, what would you do? 

A\^^uld you make this old world over again. 
If you could? On your oath, is it true? 

[234 1 



AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD AT WILLIAMS- 
PORT 

First the soft white flakes fell lightly covering all things 

dark unsightly 
With a dazzling robe of ermine, gemmed with jewels rich 

and rare. 
Then the rain came pouring, pouring, till like raging tor- 
rents roaring 
Gutters seemed the thoroughfare. 

Still it rained and kept on raining and the swollen currents 

draining 
All the city's dark pollution swept away the spotless snow. 
How they swelled the foaming river (even now it makes 

me shiver!) 
In its calm majestic flow! 

Did we hear the roar of ocean, battling in its wild com- 
motion. 

Tearing through the doomed city, like a wild beast for its 
prey? 

'Twas the river ! " Jesu ! " prayed we. For no praying 
stopped or stayed he 
Through another baleful day. 

Higher rose the water, higher, closer crept the cold flood, 

nigher. 
All the streets were filled with water, all the doors were 

barred in vain. 
Who resists the cruel water, so relentless in its slaughter, 
Deaf and blind to human pain? 

Then he left the house, my brother. W^ould we ever see 

each other 
On the hither side of heaven? thought we as we said 

adieu. 
He must save his horses yonder lest the cruel flood draw 

them under. 
They meant bread and butter too. 

[ 235 ] 



Ill in bed la}^ sister Mary with her baby. Though as wary 
As r could I found it useless e'en to try the truth to hide. 
"Something's wrong," she said. 'T know it, for your anx- 
ious brow doth show it. 
No, it cannot be denied ! " 

Whn I told her she turned moaning to the wall and whis- 
pered groaning, 

'' Oh, my husband, well-loved, where, my darling, may you 
be?" 

While the little babe lay sleeping peacefully the flood was 
creeping 
Through the hall, as I could see. 

AVith a strength born of disaster, as the water followed 

faster, 
All things portable I carried where the flood had not yet 

come. 
But in vain w^as all my trouble, for the water's haste was 

double, 
And my hands were cold and numb. 

Once again the night fell dimly while the spectre flood 

crept grimly 
Through the smallest cleft and crevice cold and still and 

pitiless. 
Oh, the awful dark and quiet, save the ceaseless roar and 

riot 
Of the river's storm and. stress ! 

John came not, and care and fever haunted Mary. ''Would 

I leave her? " 
No, I would not, but my straining eyes were glued to 

3a:tnder door. 
As the long, slow hours went crawling on their course the 

sight appalling 
Which I dreaded on the floor 

Of a dark pool trickling slowly o'er the threshhold more 

unholy 
To my heated mind than purple gore of murdered man 

could seem 

[ 236 1 



Did not come, but through the dawning of that long ex- 
pected morning 
Hope once more began to gleam. 

" God be thanked, the water's going ! " and I rose with 
courage growing. 

It had never reached the window, never reached my sis- 
ter's room. 

Soon the street was full of motion, boats sailed on the 
mimic ocean 
Half concealed amid the gloom. 

Now one stopped right down below me and the boatman 

seemed to know me. 
Yes, thank God, it was my brother, and he shouted, "Are 

you there ? " 
" Yes," I answered, " We are living." With a jubilant 

thanksgiving 
Then I met him on the stair. 

All his horses were in cover and the crisis too was over, 
For the river was receding and the danger now was past. 
In that great and gloomy city there were others (more's 
the pity!) 
In that flood had seen their last. 

And that awful night of terror (I could see it in the mir- 
ror) 

On my hair so black and glossy left the whitened tracks 
of age, 

While my well-beloved sister, though it seems death kind- 
ly missed her, 
Kept not baby from its rage. 

But those pale lips knew no laughter, cheeks no roses un- 
til after 
We had left the fated city and its troubles all behind 
\A'here the purple airs of even blew unhindered from sweet 
heaven 
And we knew that God was kind. 



[ 237 1 



BEREAVED 

Art sleeping my beloved say? 

I cannot tear myself away 

From that sweet face that lies so still. 

What harm has come to thee? What ill? 

You say she's dead ! It cannot be ! 

She will arise and speak to me. 

Twas only yester eve she spake. 

The horrid spell she'll surely break. 

It cannot be. She is not dead. 

Her lovely spirit has not fled. 

She was so fair, so young to die 

And join the multitude on high. 

A beam of light from earth has strayed 

And left our souls in darker shade. 

O Death, thou art a cruel foe 

So fair an object to lay low! 

What can she be to thee, oh Death? 

Back to her form restore the breath ! 

Back to her eyes its violet light! 

Back to her hair the sunbeams bright ! 

Into those cheeks the rose bring back ! 

Into her lips the glow they lack! 

Alas ! I rave. Forgive me, mine. 

Yea, dost thou care, or canst divine 

My loss, my grief, my bitter pain? 

Questions and tears are all in vain. 

Long years ago an empty tomb 

For idle doubts left little room. 

Before me lies an empty cell, 

Before me lies a lifeless shell 

Left voiceless on the dreary shore 

Of life where I walk evermore 

Alone until my time is come 

To leave my body's shell as dumb 

To loving questions, sobs and tears. 

Eternity will answer theirs 

And mine. I go. My love, adieu, 

Auf wiedersehen where all is new. 



238 



ELIJAH'S TRIUMPH 

Jehovah's prophet stood 
Single that crowd among, 

But Baahm's cause was good. 
Four hundred prophets strong. 

Jehovah's reign seems o'er 
And Israel need not fear, 

For Sinai's thunders roar 
No more in mortal ear. 

The heathen gods are kind. 
And Ahab serves them well. 

The heathen gods are blind, 
Their power no man can tell. 

"\Miy are ye fickle still? 

To God or Baal bow." 
The crowd is weak of will, 

It may not answer now. 

The altars are prepared, 
The fatted bulls are slain. 

And Baal's priests have dared 
To call their god — in vain! 

"Call louder yet!" A sneer 

Elijah's tone revealed. 
" Your Baal cannot hear, 

His ears in sleep are sealed. 

"A journey or a chase 

His godlike powers demand ! " 
The shadow of disgrace 

Rests on the frenzied band. 

The morn and noon have passed. 
The even time has come. 

The trial is his last. 

Baal hath met his doom. 

Elijah came and built 
The altar of his God, 

[ 239 1 



And in the trenches spilt 
The water in a flood. 

The fire from the sky 
A ready answer came 

Till beast and water die 
In the devourinf^ flame. 

The people saw the sign, 
The presence of the Lord, 

They bowed to power divine, 
The one true God adored. 

With Baal's prophets slain, 
Jehovah's worship grows, 

Once more the blessed rain 
Returning favor shows. 



SOLD 

My Muse is dead. She died last night 
Upon the mart where slaves are sold. 
I buried her quite out of sight 
And sold myself for good red gold. 

Red gold, I say, for it is red 

With heart's blood, warm and flowing still, 

I might as well myself be dead 

Since I have sold my living wall. 

Ah, yes, she made a lovely corse! 
So beautiful in life, in death. 
If aught could bring her back remorse 
Would surely now restore her breath. 

I think I slew the Maid myself. 
No other cause can I assign. 
She could not bear the clink of pelf 
Because her soul was all divine. 

[ 240 ] 



But she is dead and there is left 
But little more that I can do 
But mourn that I am so bereft 
And plant her grave with rue. 

My life is barren now and lone, 
So barren that I scarce can live, 
And I cannot the deed atone 
Nor even ask her to forgive. 

I am a slave. Slaves have no right 
To mourn or even to repent. 
I would that I had died last night, 
If death can end my punishment. 



THE HAND OF GOD 

REBELLION 

Blind! I shall be blind! 

How the long years of darkness stretch before 

\ly path of life. O, I can see myself 

A trembling, piteous thing led by a dog, 

Or by a child, perhaps, at its sweet .will 

Begging the alms of human sympathy! 

And I am young, so young to die the death. 

In life ! If I were old I'd think the time 

Was short at best that I could see the light 

Of day and all the beauty, all the bloom 

Of this fair earth. I'd think I've seen my fill. 

'Tis time I close my eyes and leave behind 

What I have loved so long. But now the time 

Is long, so long. I cannot bear to think 

How long!' I thought to do so much ere night 

Fell on my darkened eyes. I say it's cruel ! 

Better to die than live this death in life ! 

RESIGNATION 

The time seems long since I have seen the light. 
I once had thought I could not live without 
The beauty of the world I. loved so well. 



[2411 



Too well. I did not know that it was but 

The garment fair of Him who dwells in light 

Too bright for human eyes to bear. I had 

But touched that garment's hem and thought it was 

The sum of happiness. Ah, blind indeed 

I was but now no longer am. I see 

That light before whose brightness once had failed 

My proud earth-sight. In darkness now I walk 

And solitude profound that I may see 

And hear Thee as once Moses in the Mount. 

'Tis well. The noises I once loved now jar 

My inner sense. The sights I loved seem like 

The painted scenes upon the mimic stage. 

The life that now I live is real; the past 

A dream. The long dark years that once stretched out 

In cavernous gloom are now a shining path 

That brightens more and more from day to day. 



THE HEROES 

It was in far Poltava 

That famine stalked through the land 
And the cruel landlords cared not 

^^'hile plenty they had on hand. 

Their barns were overflowing, 
Their larders, they were filled. 

But the starving peasants had nothing 
Wherewith their pangs could be stilled. 

So the peasants came together 

And started an army strong 
To take the corn and fuel 

That should to them belong. 

They had.no weapons but only 

The tools with which they wrought. 

And the sense of a great injustice 

AA^as the cause for which they fought. 

. [ 242 1 



Then the White Czar knew his snbjects 

And sent his armed men 
To drive the famished Hon 

Back to his wretched den. 

But not a man w^ould fire 

And never a soldier obeyed 
And not a gun was leveled 

At man or child or maid. 

Were they not born in hovels? 

Were they not near of kin? 
To shoot their fathers and brothers, 

Ah, sure, that were a sin ! 

Too well they knew the guerdon 

Of heroes of their mold, 
Too well they knew destruction 

Was theirs instead of gold. 

The blood of these noble soldiers 
W^as drunk by the Russian soil, 

Or in Siberia's prisons 

They waste in servile toil. 

But the tale of lofty manhood 

And Christ-like sacrifice 
Has traveled the wide world over 

And its memory never dies. 



AT EVENTIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT 

All day the rain came pouring down 

And the wild winds swept the street. 
The heavens were dull w^ith a ceaseless frown. 
And the bare trees shook from trunk to crown 
In the wake of the Storm King's feet. 

My heart was weary and sick and sad 
And my eyes w^ith tears were dim. 
For the Lord had taken the best I had. 
And I thought to myself I should go mad, 
T^or I would not trust in Him. 

[ 243 1 



Came even and the skies grew red, 

Flushed with the sunset's glow, 
The sad clouds parted, a glory shed 
From the golden streets the angels tread 

Illumined all below. 

I looked, and into my heart there stole 

A beam of light divine. 
And He said to me: "O, sin-sick soul, 
I will heal thy sorrow and make thee whole." 

So He entered this heart of mine. 

— The Moravian, April 5, 1899 



[244] 



k?^ 10 i9U8 



X 



